


Drowning in a Sea of Stars

by npeg



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Action, Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Humour, Hurt, M/M, PTSD, Smut, Steve is a long-suffering saint, Tony has the emotional range of a teaspoon, later Established Relationship, light romance turned epic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 87,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/npeg/pseuds/npeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes we miss the things that are right in front of our eyes.</p><p>One night, in the small hours of the morning, Tony finds himself having to comfort a sad and lonely Steve, with nothing but whisky to help him.</p><p>Neither of them could have predicted the aftermath.</p><p>Expect angst, fluff, laughs, and smut. Language throughout and explicit content in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Babysitting

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost from the original work on FF.net, and from here on out, i will be posting updates on both sites simultaneously!
> 
> enjoy!

"And what the hell would  _you_ know about it, Tony,  _huh_? NOTHING, that's what, you know absolutely NOTHING."

Steve's voice rings clear as day around the room and Tony winces as the echo rushes back again and rings even more harshly his ears. Somehow, he has ended up on babysitting duty with Captain Yesterday, and Steve has been ranting for nigh on 3 hours now. Tony is on his, what, 4th? whiskey at this point, and more importantly, Tony is tired. True, Tony is always tired, but all he wants to do right now is collapse onto his bed in whiskey-tinged oblivion and not have to deal with an upset Steve. And "upset" is an understatement of tectonic proportions. It's been a long day for all of them, but something, and he can't quite figure out what, has set Steve off. If he's honest, seeing Steve this agitated is starting to unnerve Tony more than just a little. And yes, Tony wants to argue with him, to deny and protest and give the smart answer. He wants to retort with easy wit, a quip, he wants to say "actually, Cap, I think you'll find I know just about everything about anything". He has an army of retorts already resting on the edge of his tongue like a springboard. But instead, he swallows it all back, and not without some difficulty. Being flippant comes easily to him. Brushing off important things with gaudy humour is something he learned to do from a very young age. He mostly had his father to thank for that.

But tonight is different. He can see Steve teetering on the edge of something, pacing the room like a wounded animal, all erratic movement and wild, frightened eyes. Tony can see the vein jumping in Steve's temple even in the dim light of the small hours of the morning. He sees his hands crushed into fists, the tendons threading along his arms standing out. He can see Steve is shaking. And without the familiar, solid armour of his wit, Tony swaps his whiskey glass to the other hand, and fidgets.

The ice in Tony's glass tinkles softly as he moves it from one hand to the other. And then, all of a sudden, Steve crosses the room in two huge strides to where Tony stands by the window and  _shoves_  him backwards, and not gently. Tony screeches something that would make a nun blush and narrowly avoids throwing his drink all over himself.

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA! What the fuck, Steve! Jesus Christ, what the actual fuck is wrong with…!" And suddenly it all comes crashing violently out of Steve in a mad, cascading rush of pent up emotion. It washes over him like a sea, a haze of excruciating, agonising red.

" _I am WRONG here!_ " He yells, throwing his hands up, voice audibly straining. Breaking. Cracking like so much thin ice. He takes a long, shuddering breath, and it skitters strangely around the room, as if it were chasing him. Through his eyes race a hundred unbearable emotions, all at war with each other, all threatening to overwhelm him and drag him under to drown.

His voice is sharp in Tony's ears, "Everything is  _too_   _different_. Everything is  _strange_ , and  _different_ , and  _God_  it's all so  _loud_ and  _awful_ , and it never  _stops_ Tony, it just, it's just... WRONG, OKAY?"

And then it hits him, knocking the wind out of his gut. It is guilt; it is pain; and suddenly, it is just far, far, too much to bear. Just staying standing becomes an impossible task. And so he crumples.

Panting, Steve collapses heavily onto the floor, leaning against the wall with his head sinking into his hands. He feels paper thin, and just as fragile. He is just  _so_   _tired_. He feels the ache of it deep in his bones and he wonders if it will ever,  _ever_  get better. If it will  _ever_  get  _easier_. It's all he can do to keep the tears at bay, to choke back the sobs and the unyielding waves of grief. So much pain that he has never been able to face, he has never been able to come to terms with it, to reconcile, and accept it. The pain of losing Bucky, of never knowing what could have been with Peggy; oh beautiful, clever, determined Peggy. So full of fire and life. And he has nothing in this terrifying new world. All he has left of his world is ice and dust.

Sometimes he wakes in the night and he can't remember their faces. And so, he grieves. He grieves that he is  _still_ here and he is  _utterly alone_. And they have lived. They have  _lived_  their lives, lived them full and well and they have lived them  _without him_. Their lives have been and gone  _without him in them_.

A still shadow by the window, Tony lets Steve have his silence for a moment, and then slides down to sit beside him.

"Scooch over, big guy."

He motions Steve to move further toward the window, and settles down beside him, whiskey glass still in hand. Tony thinks that tonight he is probably going to need even more to drink than usual, and then it occurs to him that he has no idea how much whiskey Steve might need to cope with this whole thing the way Tony usually does, and once again, he feels so very ill-equipped to deal with the situation he has found himself in.

Outside, the city bustles and busies itself in the night. The stars hide behind the fuzz of light emanating from every corner of the buildings below them. Steve stares out into the night and sees none of it. It is now that Tony notices the wet sheen glazing Steve's eyes, and he really does wonder how in the name of God  _he_  ended up being the one dealing with this. Of all the people on hand in this place, he is possibly the  _least_  qualified to deal with sensitive matters. Especially considering his own personal method of "coping" with something is by not talking about it. Ever. By locking the key in a box, strapping it to a rocket, and jettisoning it into the sun. And so he taps a few commands into the phone he takes from his pocket, and when a small robot rolls into the room carrying a full bottle of whiskey and an ice bucket, he relieves it of its load and presses a glass into Steve's hand.

"Here, whether you can get drunk or not, the fire as it goes down should help. Really warms you deep down inside, y'know?"

Steve stares blankly at the whiskey in his hand. Tony sighs, and fidgets. Then Steve seems to realise what is happening, and he turns to Tony with a look in his eyes that Tony has never seen before. His eyes are clear, and they bore into his own with an intensity that warms him more than whiskey ever has. And Steve looks deep, looks deep down into the pools of brown, and he is searching for something, but quite what that something is, Tony can't imagine. And then they have been holding each other's gaze for just a little too long, and Tony is the first to break the stare, coughing nervously and dipping his head down to take a sip of the cold bronze liquid. But Steve keeps his eyes fixed on Tony, whiskey untouched, ice melting in the glass, and Tony suddenly has the bizarre thought that perhaps ice is not the best thing to be giving a fragile Steve. Bad memories, and all that. He fidgets again. Scratches his nose. Rolls the tips of his fingers together. Taps his toes. The silence stretches on in the dark, city lights twinkling in the background, stretching out into the distance, horizon black as coal and darker, stretching further and further to the edges of the world.

"Thank you, Tony," comes the quiet voice. And Steve sounds old. Tired, yes, of course, but more surprisingly to Tony,  _old_. Despite his frankly  _ridiculous_  out-of-date language, Steve Rogers never sounds like an old man. Not ever. Not even once. And it shocks Tony a little. To suddenly come to the realisation that this man, this legend, this paragon of virtue and good-old-fashioned American values, is just that. A man.  _Only a man_ , like everyone else.

Except he isn't. He  _is_  that, but he is also so much more. And he is a man that has experienced true suffering. No one may ever know what it is like to go through what Steve went through, trapped in the ice as decades pass, until all you knew has faded and gone. Lost to the annals of history, remnants of the glory days, idealised and manipulated until they were unrecognisable. Tony can't pretend to try to understand what it must have been like, to wake up in a cold, harsh room full of bright, blinding lights, and strangers. Not a single face he knew. Not a single friendly face  _at all_. Tony can't begin to imagine that pain. Nothing but the beep of the medical machines. The scratching of pens on clipboards and notepads. The whirring of machinery. The hum of electricity everywhere. And everything so bright. So clinical. Scientists and doctors and government agents crowding around like chickens at feeding time. Clawing, pecking at him, all desperate for a piece, all wanting a souvenir to take away and preserve, to keep as their own, as some kind of proof. And yet somehow, despite that, Steve is no less for all they have taken from him. And Tony feels an ache, somewhere deep down.

He is abruptly brought out of his reverie by the realisation that Steve is still looking at him with wide, bright eyes. The electric lights of the high-rise across the street are caught crystallised in his black pupils, and they looks like stars somehow. And Tony experiences a feeling not unlike falling as he slips further into the soft blackness. It is like falling, and it is like drowning. But it is more like flying, floating through infinite fields of starry lights.

His drink abruptly slips from his hand, sending ice and cold whiskey skittering across the carpet, coating him in sticky bronze liquid. He jumps in surprise, groaning as he realises what has happened. Sighing, he shakes his hands to get rid of the worst of it, snapped abruptly, cruelly back to reality, skin already growing colder as the liquid soaks into his clothes.  
"Oh  _goddamnit, shit_ , not _again_! Ah, sorry Steve, my bad," he apologises, "Let me get that…" Tony rights the glass with his left hand, collecting the ice cubes one by one, and sucks the whiskey from the fingers of his right.

That's when Steve grabs his hand. And again, they lock eyes. There, again, Tony feels the ache. Steve's face is so open, and there is something in that gaze that looks too much like a plea. His eyes look so,  _lost_ , and Tony is overcome with the sensation that he is desperately searching for something. He feels his breath hitch in his throat at the unexpected contact, and suddenly, Tony finds he is nervous and awkward.

He looks from Steve, to his hand, and back again.

"Um, ha ha, Steve, uh, what are you… doing?" he gulps out, breathing suddenly like sucking treacle through a straw. And Steve says nothing, but pulls Tony's upturned hand to his lips and tastes the whiskey that has collected in his palm. Tiny bolts of electricity race along Tony's arm, his hairs standing on end. The clash of cold whiskey and the pure warmth radiating from Steve's lips on his skin make his head swim. Briefly, his vision wavers, and there, in that moment, sat on the floor in a dark room made blue by the haze of the city's neon glare, he is so very close to a man he knows, and yet, he doesn't truly know him at all. But he knows with a burning certainty that something has changed, because now, he needs to  _know_.

And it is like fire; red-hot, primal, and frightening, burning in his chest. Swelling with that deep ache, ripping through his chest. The familiar need to pick something apart and learn its secrets grips him, and he is lost, caught in the riptide. Drowning in those black, black eyes, so tinged with sadness and starlight.

It is in this moment that Steve pulls him by his hand, and skin still tingling, envelopes him in his arms.

And fully clothed, cloaked and hidden in the forgiving darkness, Tony Stark suddenly feels more naked than he ever has in all his life.

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters!_


	2. The Morning After

Tony Stark is nursing a hangover. It's some time past 3pm and his head feels like it's being crushed in a trash compactor, whilst simultaneously being stomped on, pierced with needles, and set on fire. Sat at his desk with his arms crossed and his fingers pressing his eyelids shut he can't quite get rid of the post-whiskey furring that coats the inside of his mouth. He runs his tongue over his teeth and his headache spasms horribly behind his eyes. God, how he hates the morning after. And this  _particular_  morning after he is coping with more than just a splitting headache. He is trying to piece together something altogether more complicated and confusing than a trail of clothes scattered along the floor from door to bedroom, shoes and shirts and underwear… The usual tell-tale trail of destruction.

This morning Tony is in fact trying to puzzle out what in God's name came over him in the dark with Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers keeping him locked just a little too tight in a bear hug that lasted just a little too long to be entirely comfortable… Steve Rogers staring into his eyes as if he had the answers to the universe (though hey, who's to say he wouldn't one day)… Steve Rogers looking lost and alone and fragile… That strange ache rushing through his chest… Wanting to pick Steve to pieces, to see what's really hiding inside…

Tony shakes his head, and immediately regrets it, wincing as his head spasms again. Everything in his lab is whirring and humming a bit too loud for his liking, and he groans and leans face-first against his desk.

"Jarvis?  _Dear God_  put something fruity in the blender, will you? I want an obscenely large My-God-Everything-Hurts-Why-Do-I-Do-This-To-Myself-Hangover-From-Hell Recovery Smoothie. I want it  _so_  packed full of "healthy goodness" that it is practically illegal. Quickly. Please."

Jarvis' dulcet tones echo silkily around the room. "Already done, sir. And may I remind you that there is a bottle of aspirin in the second drawer of your desk?"

"Thanks, pal." Tony gropes in the drawer for the bottle, and dry-swallows two aspirin. The smoothie appears beside his hand and he clutches at it gratefully, ignoring its disgusting, thick consistency in light of its healing properties.

Tony grimaces up at the glaring lights and brushes his hand over the dimmer, suddenly aggravated by the over-bright fluorescence everywhere around him. Jesus, how much exactly  _had_  he drunk last night?

After the frankly terrifying and  _unnerving_  encounter in Steve's room, Tony had bolted like a spooked horse, mumbling excuses and fumbling over his words, clumsy, before cutting himself off mid-babble and skittering away back to his lab. If the "kitchen" counter in the corner was anything to go by, apparently he had wound up finishing off the  _entire_  bottle of whiskey he had (fully) intended to share. Plus at least half of a second bottle. Various whiskey tumblers were standing or lying strewn across the counter. Tony sighs and rubs at his temples. For some reason, the whole thing has left his nerves utterly shot. And the fact that he has no idea why that is annoys him immensely.

"Ugh, the hell is wrong with me," he mutters, to no one in particular. Jarvis doesn't respond. For that much, Tony is grateful; he doesn't feel up to a spate of verbal sparring with his A.I. right now. His responses wouldn't do his genius much justice.

He taps the touch screen beside him and soothing strains of jazz float out through the sound system. He sighs his approval. Nursing his smoothie, Tony goes and lies down on the floor in the middle of the dim lab. The cold tiles feel good, after the initial shock, on the exposed skin of his arms, and he closes his eyes and wishes the aspirin would hurry the hell up and kick in already. He starts thinking about new suit components, upgrades and system maintenance, the mathematics familiar and comforting in his aching head.

He is just drifting off into sleep, glass slipping from his hand, when the music is interrupted by a loud alert and Tony opens one eye blearily to see the huge green letters "ACCESS: GRANTED" lighting the access panel by the door. The door hisses open, then clicks shut. Footsteps approach and come to a halt beside his feet.

Steve Rogers is standing there holding a paper bag, Burger King emblazoned on the sides. The smell of hot fries, grease and meat makes Tony's stomach turn and he has to cover his mouth with his hand and force back a gag. He lowers his head back to the floor, eyes screwed shut, and waves his hand at Steve, dismissing the bag.

"Dear God  _please_ no fast food just yet. I feel fucking terrible, you wouldn't believe, and that smells just, God, absolutely disgusting."

Steve eyes the hideous, lumpy, green "liquid" in the beaker in Tony's hand.

"Oh, and that doesn't? It looks like toxic waste, Tony, what the hell is in that?"

Tony raises his eyebrows, eyes still closed, "Uh, for your information Cap? This happens to be the colour of health. This is probably what health would look like if you could pour it into a beaker. Full of essential vitamins and salts and sugars and wonderful things that will make me feel a little less like my face has been hit by a truck." Eyes still shut, he waggles the glass at where he presumes Steve is standing, "You should try some, really, it looks like sludge but tastes like…" He crinkles his eyebrows.

"…well, no, actually, there's no getting around it, it tastes as bad as it looks. Sludge, mud, toxic goop, honestly it tastes like ass," he waves his free arm upwards at the ceiling, "Hey Jarvis, next time can I get something that doesn't taste like a monkey used it to wipe its ass?"

This earns a snort of laughter from Steve and makes Tony groan at the effort of talking for too long. His voice hurts his ears.

He opens his eyes to see Steve in the process of sitting down on the floor beside him, depositing the bag between them. Tony raises an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

Steve shrugs and lies down next to him.

"Seems like if I want to talk to you I have to adopt a similar position. I can imagine you hate being talked down to."

Tony is surprised because Steve's not wrong. There are not a lot of things Tony hates more than being talked down to, or looked down on in any way, for that matter. He isn't sure whether or not he is surprised that Steve knows that about him; probably not, he doesn't make much of an effort to hide his emotions, and he's fairly sure Steve has witnessed an occasion where this has happened and Tony was  _extremely_ vocal about it. But ugh, thinking hurts. Tony blinks and pours the sludge-cum-medicinal smoothie into his mouth to compensate for the fact that for a moment he can't think of anything to say.

Steve sighs and stretches, then puts his hands behind his head. Tony blinks again.

And then there they are, just lying down. On the floor. Side by side. Staring up at constellations projected across the ceiling and walls. Tony had forgotten that that was his default dimmer setting. And suddenly his mind is whirring, set off by thoughts of stars and darkness and the infinity of the cosmos, and he catches himself thinking about last night, about Steve's mouth on his hand and the stars reflected in his eyes, and Tony is suddenly very conscious of the other man beside him.  _What the hell is going on here?_

After a few minutes, Tony is really feeling the silence. Well, not silence, because the music is still trickling out of the speakers all around them, something by Sinatra. But silence as in the complete lack of conversation. Why the hell is Steve even here? How did Steve know he had a hangover? Tony hadn't spoken to anyone since he woke up. In fact, he is pretty sure that he had pretended to be out so no one would bother him while he coped with his hangover. Did Steve notice him grab the whiskey bottle on the way out last night as he bolted? And why had he brought him fast food for God's sake?

Actually, more to the point, how did Steve know Tony liked Burger King  _in particular_ when he was nursing a hangover..? Then again, did he know that at all, or was it just coincidence?

Seconds and minutes pass, dragging on like hours. Tony's smoothie is finished, and the burger bag beside him suddenly makes a welcome distraction from the awkward quiet, regardless of the way the smell of hot grease is still making his stomach roil.

As Tony sits up to take the bag, he notices Steve has his eyes closed and is lying perfectly still. He has a smile on his face. Tony takes the burger out first and all but inhales it, stuffing it into his mouth and barely chewing it before he swallows. It is gone in a matter of seconds. As he is finishing the last of the fries, increasingly disturbed by Steve's lack of speech, the other man chuckles behind him. Tony turns round to see Steve smiling up at him, amused.

"Well you polished that off pretty fast considering you didn't want it."

Tony makes a face at him, tongue out, mouth open and full of half-chewed fries.

"Nice, Tony, nice," Steve chuckles and crosses one leg over the other.

Tony swallows, "No but seriously, what are you doing in here? And why did you bring me food? How do you know what food I like? And actually, wait a second," Tony's face changes as he realises, "There were no pickles in that burger were there?"

Steve smiles, "Nope. You hate them don't you? I figured you'd be feeling pretty fragile this morning and I didn't want you to throw up when confronted with a pickle hiding in your burger so I, uh, took them out."

Tony's mouth goes slack for just a second and he gapes in shock. Then he stuffs the remaining fries into his mouth and snaps it shut, chewing furiously.  _Steve knows I hate pickles. Steve knows I hate pickles. How does Steve Rogers know I hate pickles?_

Steve pulls himself into a sitting position and takes the rubbish out of Tony's hands, compacting it into a neat little ball of scrunched paper and tossing it in a perfect arc into the bin by the door.

"Feel better yet?" He enquires, eyes smiling.

Tony feels his insides spasm a little, and he doesn't know why they do that. It was just a burger.

From Burger King, specifically. With no pickles in it.

Tony makes a strange strangled sound and tries to swallow.

"Sure, yeah, um, well, I'll let you know if I heave it back up, okay?" He mutters thickly, mouth suddenly dry and sticky from the smoothie and mush of burger and potato.

He scrambles abruptly up off of the floor and claps, bringing the fluorescent lights blazing back into life. His head swirls from getting up too quickly. At least, he thinks it's that.

Confusion flashes across Steve's face, and he follows, getting up more slowly, brushing down his pants.

"Tony, um, I did actually want to say something to you," Steve mumbles.

Tony keeps his eyes fixed on the empty smoothie beaker in his hand and he suddenly decides he's going to wash it, manually.

In a sink. With his hands.

For the first time in God knows how long, possibly  _ever_ , he, Tony Stark, is going to wash something. Because he doesn't know what else to do. Because somehow words have escaped him. He crosses the lab to the kitchen area, and dumps the beaker in the sink, adding washing up liquid and letting the hot tap stream into the bowl. He can't bring himself to say anything to Steve, can't even manage a "hmm"? There's a huge lump in his throat and he wonders if he's choking on a backlog of fries, or whether his throat is just closing up on him.  _Why does he feel so panicked?_

Steve comes to stand beside him at the sink, leaning back against the worktop, arms folded across his chest. Tony is wrist-deep in soapy water, studiously avoiding eye contact. That and trying to understand why his skin feels so hot… He manages to clean and rinse the beaker, shakes off the water, and moves to put it on the drying rack to his right.

Steve suddenly nudges him with his elbow and Tony starts so violently he all but throws the beaker across the room. It jumps out of his hand and promptly shatters on the floor, sending pieces of broken glass flying.

Tony's screech echoes around the lab and he jumps like he's been electrocuted. His vision swims as his headache spasms violently and he clutches his chest, the arc reactor solid under his grip.

Steve has leapt backwards and is looking at Tony with absolute shock.

"Jesus, Tony, what the hell, I only nudged you!" Steve splutters, Tony's screech still reverberating in his ears. He kneels down and starts to scoop the glass into piles with kitchen paper.

Tony's heart is skittering around inside his chest, and he clutches at it as if somehow that will help. As if he can grab it and hold it still.

He abruptly snaps out of it, "Oh, I'm sorry,  _so clumsy_ , I don't know why I did that...  _Jesus_ , my  _head_ …" Tony whimpers and pushes the back of one hand against his eye. His brain feels like it is expanding and contracting inside his skull from the sudden jolt.

Steve lets out a shaky laugh, "Well next time I won't nudge you when you're hung over and handling fragile objects, alright?"

Tony is shaken. He waves Steve away from the mess, dismissively, "Get up, get up, stop that, you'll cut yourself, don't worry about it, c'mon please," he discards the kitchen towel, "Jarvis, could you get that cleaned up? And remind me never to wash anything made of glass ever again. Or, actually, you know what? Never let me wash anything at all, okay? Sober, hung over, whatever. No washing things."

Steve chuckles and brushes his hands off, shaking his head. Two Roomba's slide out of the walls and busy themselves with finishing Steve's work, collecting the glass into piles, spiriting it away, and wiping the floor.

That's when Tony finally notices Steve fidgeting. He motions a hand at him, vaguely tracing something in the air, "So, you were saying?", his chest still feeling strangely tight.

Steve nods and clears his throat, "I just wanted to say, uh, thank you, for last night, I guess. Uh," he moves his weight to the other foot, "I'm sorry you had to deal with that. I was just blowing off steam, y'know, I didn't mean for you to end up having to babysit me. Obviously I try not to let other people see me like that. It kind of, uh ," he rubs his neck with one hand, "doesn't really fit with the whole "unshakeable" Captain America persona."

He closes his eyes and frowns, deep furrows appearing on his brow, "I don't get like that very often, and I hate being a burden on people, but, um, I'd just had a rough day, and, uh… I guess, just, um, well," Steve sighs, hand dropping to fidget nervously by his side, and he looks at Tony, really looks at him hard.

"Thank you, Tony. Really. For just being there with me. For letting me have my little, um, "moment", and not judging me for it." He smiles a lopsided smile, "It means a lot."

Tony stares at Steve for a minute, panic slowly subsiding. So the burger was a "Sorry for making you babysit me" present. Oh. Well that's fair enough, he supposes. Nothing weird then…

And yet, Steve seems weary again. And Tony remembers seeing that look etched on his face in the blue glow of city lights last night. He remembers how tired he looked. How old.

Then Steve just claps Tony on the back, and leaves without saying anything else, but with a very strange look on his face. And it's when that bizarre ache racks him again, that it occurs to Tony that Steve Rogers looks kind of sad, and that he, Tony Stark, actually cares.

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters!_


	3. Parting With Pepper

__

__

__

_\- Three weeks later -_

"This is  _not_ …  _about_... the  _company_ , Pepper!"

A glass sails past him and hits the wall dangerously close to Tony's head. He watches the bright red wine begin to drip down, and tries not to think of blood. He has never seen Pepper quite like this, dishevelled, chest heaving, and  _angry_. Not in the least bit composed. He can count on one hand the times he's seen Pepper lose her temper. And not even that time on the roof, after the Stark Expo was all but obliterated when things got more than a little out of hand with Ivan Vanko, topped this for loss of composure.

Pepper rounds on him and all but shrieks it into his face.

"Yes  _it is_ , Tony, that's the whole point! You  _never_  think about the company, you never think about  _me_ ,you just do whatever  _you_  want and everything else is just collateral damage!" Her chest is heaving, body shaking with rage, and her hair is coming out of its elaborate style, tendrils falling across her face.

"I've been cleaning up after you  _for years_ , and this was  _my_  time to shine, to really show people what I've been putting  _so_   _much_  work into, and you just completely undermined me! In front of all those people, Tony!"

She swipes the hair from her face angrily, "You can't just waltz back in whenever you feel like it! You are  _Iron Man_! I don't have that! I don't  _have_  a second  _persona_  to hide behind! This?" She gestures at the huge canvases splashed with her face, the company logo, the new project tagline, "This is everything I've got. I have put my  _heart_  and  _soul_  into getting this company back on top and you just came  _so close_  to ruining it all for me! How many times are you going to do this to me? How many more times am I going to have to put up with this?"

Her eyes are full of tears but it is the anger in her voice that shocks him. Inside, Tony is a seething mass of emotions. He is angry, so blindingly angry, but more than that, he is hurt. It wracks him like physical pain, radiating through every fibre of his being. How many years has he known Pepper? How many ridiculous fucking hiccups and sticky situations have they slogged through together? Granted, nine times out of ten it was  _him_  dragging _her_  into them, and  _her_  hauling  _his_  ass out but still. They are a  _team_. They know everything about each other, the good, the bad, the downright ugly. He is Butch Cassidy to her Sundance Kid. They are Yin and Yang. Sure, sometimes it's been rocky, and there have been times he's watched her walk away thinking she might never come back, but she always did. And he loved her all the more for it. They never fight; not seriously. They never fight like this.

Tony grinds his teeth together, jaw set, vein jumping in his temple.

Pepper takes his silence for obstinacy, "Oh my God, Tony, you don't even care, do you?" she whispers, appalled.

"Of  _course_  I  _care_ , Pepper,  _please_ ," he starts, reaching for her, and there is bile like venom in his mouth, but she cuts him off, throwing her hands up in front of her like a barrier. His outstretched arm flops uselessly back to his side.

"No, you know what,  _you don't_ , because if you  _did_? You wouldn't be able to do this to me, and you  _just keep doing it_ , Tony! You keep on doing it and I can't just keep brushing it aside or sweeping it under the rug and cleaning up after you! I'm trying to do my  _job_!" She collapses into a chair, breathing heavily, and he sees tears fall onto her upturned hands.

His breath catches in his throat. He never meant to hurt her, never. But he is a wrecking ball, acting on impulse, he always has been. And they've always been able to work around that, to accept it and deal with it. But this time, the silence stretches and screams at him and suspicion crawls along his skin, and from her ragged breathing he knows that, this time, something inside Pepper has snapped.

Tony hangs his head, and his hands clench into fists and unclench again. Rage and hurt burn and boil in his chest. They bubble higher and higher, rising in his throat.

"Pepper, please. I didn't mean to do that, I'm sorry. I just got, I just got carried away. It was so familiar, and I forgot and just slipped back into it and I…" he trails off. She waves her hands at him, dismissing his half-formed excuses. When he meets her eyes, he realises they don't matter anymore, because what he sees there makes his heart stop. He draws in a slow breath that comes more painfully than he could have imagined, and the finality in her words almost breaks him.

"How many times are we going to have to do this, Tony?" comes the ragged whisper, then what is almost a sob, "You're a loose cannon, you always have been, but you won't let me help you, and I just cannot do this anymore."

"And what is "this", exactly?" the words escaping him in a hiss so quiet he barely hears it himself.

When he sees the tears well in her eyes, he already knows.

"We should never have started this, Tony. It was never going to work. Not when you're so…" She throws her hands up towards him, and that movement says everything. In that unfinished sentence Tony reads so many things; things she did mean, things she didn't, things she has never said, things she will and would never say.

He stands there and lets the silence soak in. His nails are dug so far into his palms that somewhere deep in his mind he notes distantly that the marks will be there for days.

Pepper gives a strange choked hiccup, and stands up abruptly. She straightens her dress and brushes her hand angrily across her eyes, past trying to salvage her makeup.

"I'm taking the jet to DC, Tony. Don't call me, don't write me, just don't try to contact me at all." Her voice trembles as she brushes past him towards the door.

"I'm sorry, Tony, but this is over."

And she leaves him standing in an empty hotel lobby, rooted in place, the chilling, heart-wrenching finality in her voice still ringing in his ears.

...

Steve is heading to bed when he hears a loud crash from Tony's end of the hall. Checking his watch, Steve notes with little surprise that it is nearly 4am. He's been training, result of a pretty bad nightmare of swirling ice and screaming red faces. Basically, he woke up needing to punch something. Hard.

Steve learned fairly early on that crashing noises in the lab in the small hours of the morning are not often a good sign. So he drops his towel and gym bag by his door, and moves quietly down the hallway, the ghostly blue glow of the access keypad lighting his way. Descending the steps to the lab, the first thing he notices is that the lights are off. Well, dimmed, to be precise. The last time he was here the lights were dimmed as well, and he recalls the constellations spread out across the walls. The stars are scattered now, as then, across every surface. But there is no soft jazz this time. As soon as the door hisses open, granting him access, loud, angry music blasts out. That is some soundproofing.

He steps into the darkness of the lab.

"Hello? Tony? You in here?" The music drowns out the sound of his voice, "Hey Jarvis, would you cut the music?"

"Sir." comes the reply, music immediately fading out.

Steve can smell alcohol, and he can smell a lot of it. Suddenly he hears a groan, accompanied shortly by a slurred voice, "Heyyyyyy, whadd'ya do that for, I was lissn'n to that…"

As Steve crosses the room his footsteps crunch over broken glass. The lab is a mess. Panels shattered, tools and components in total disarray. The floor is a minefield of metal parts. He accidentally kicks an empty bottle, sending it skittering across the floor. The sound provokes another unintelligible groan from Tony and what Steve imagines is some fairly colourful disgruntled swearing.

Steve finds Tony slumped in the front seat of his Audi in the dark.

He leans over the door of the convertible, looking at the empty bottles in the footwell. Tony is splayed, arms wide, across the seat, clutching a half-empty whiskey glass, Ray-Bans hiding his eyes.

Steve sighs. How many times has he seen Tony drunk by now? It never fails to make him a strange mixture of guilty and sad. He's still trying to work that one out, to be honest.

He tries to prise the whiskey glass from Tony's hands, and meets fierce resistance. Tony growls up at the hand attempting to wrench the glass from his grip, swatting at him.

"Okay, Tony, right now we need to remove Mr Scotch, and then we are going to have a conversation."

Tony turns to stare blearily at Steve over the top of his sunglasses. His eyes are heavily bloodshot, and Steve wonders vaguely how long exactly Tony has been on this particular bender.

It takes Tony nearly a minute of squinting and blinking before he appears to actually recognise who is talking to him, but when he does, his face splits into a huge grin, which looks more than a little manic to Steve.

"Hey Steve! Hey, hey why are you… Wait, wait wait, c'min here, c'min here with me, c'mon Steve" he babbles, slapping the empty seat beside him. Then he promptly loses his balance and sways towards the door Steve is leaning on. Whiskey sloshes over the upholstery.

Tony hiccups and squints into the bottom of his suddenly empty glass, "Hey, hey, Steve, Steve fill me up would ya, I'm fresh outta gas", he manages, before collapsing into giggles.

"Hey, hey, maybe we should take this baby out for a driiiiiiiiiive…," He slaps at the steering wheel, "Get away from this fucking place and all the fucking people that want to fucking fuck around with us and… hey," he gropes around in the door pocket and under the seat before realising with a slur, "Hey Steve, d'you, d'you know where I put the keys…?" His confusion then subsides into mad cackling.

Steve can't quite believe what he's seeing. What the hell happened for Tony to get so spectacularly drunk? Not that Tony ever needed a reason to get drunk, but right now Steve can tell that something pretty bad must have happened to him. The sheer number of empty bottles testifies as much. That, and the warzone that is Tony's lab. Whatever it is, Steve can't put his finger on it just yet.

"Yeah, maybe it's for the best that we don't find them..." Steve says quietly, watching the ridiculous spectacle before him.

Tony blinks slowly up at him, and sighs theatrically, "Could you, could you stop being so, so damn  _tall_  for like, just a, like, millisecond here, pal? It's just, I can't quite see your face, s'all swimming and uh…" Tony leans, or falls - more precisely, back against the seat, motioning Steve to get in, patting the empty seat again, "C'mon now Mr Rogers, sir, time for a good ol' heart t' heart, let's get to know each other a little better," Tony slurs, pouring whiskey into his glass from another bottle that has miraculously appeared in his hand. Where the hell is he  _getting_  these? Steve wonders.

Tony waves his arm, obviously trying to motion Steve to  _just get in the car_ , when he gets his sleeve caught on the gear stick, and throws whiskey all over the dashboard. And himself.

"Oh  _shit_ , now I'm gonna hav'ta get this shirt all dry cleaned, and oh maaaaaan, Pepper's gonna…" And in the split second it takes for him to realise what he's just said, Tony's face darkens, turns absolutely thunderous, and he upends the whiskey bottle into his glass. He knocks back a full measure and then looks at the glass with manic rage swirling in his eyes, before tossing it over his shoulder out of the car. It smashes on the ground, joining the rest of the debris. It's when Tony makes to start drinking directly out of the bottle that Steve gets into the car beside him and snatches the bottle from his grasp.

So this is about Pepper. And from the utter state the lab is in, Steve suspects the worst. He wishes Tony was sober enough to tell him what had happened, but instead he resigns himself to damage control.

He puts the whiskey bottle down out of Tony's reach. This earns him a death glare and Tony screws up his face and shoves his hands up under his arms.

"Oh c'mon Steve, why'd you gotta be such a party pooper?" He draws out the "c'mon Steve" like a recalcitrant child.

Steve sighs heavily, "Tony, I doubt you'll remember this in the morning but I heard what sounded like you, uh, "re-decorating" the lab again and I just wanted to check in on you, because God knows you could have broken something important. Namely yourself. "

He turns his head to see Tony tip up another glass to try and coax out a few more drops of whiskey, scowling at Steve as he does it.

Steve sighs, "You know, I'm not sure if anyone's ever told you this, Tony, but you may have a drinking problem…"

"Whoa, hey, hey, it's not a drinking  _problem_  if you're good at it,  _Steeeeve_. 'N besides, I'm  _enjoying_  it, thank you very much, Cap'n  _Killjoy_." He is slurring so badly that Steve has trouble distinguishing one word from another.

And suddenly he is off, rambling, words all mushing together in a huge, angry, slurred rush.  _Pepper… only trustworthy constant thing in my whole damn life, only constant variable, y'know? … s'probably for the best we aren't together 'nymore… 'd only end up hurting her… like father like son, huh? Just another fucked up rich kid witha complex…_

And Steve decides he's heard enough. He's heard more than he thinks he should have anyway, uneasy at having heard Tony say so much, so freely. He was just privy to bits of Tony that, in the morning, once the drink had worn off, Tony probably wouldn't be too happy to know he'd witnessed… Then again, a small part of Steve is happy that Tony let him in…

_Only because he's drunk_ , says a small voice in the back of his mind,  _only because he's too out of it to know any better. He's not opening up to you, it doesn't mean anything, he doesn't know what he's saying…_

Steve shakes his head as if he can dislodge the thoughts that way.

"Okay, Tony, that's it. Let's get you to your room, because you need to sleep this off. The bots can tidy this mess up, and Jesus, Tony, you really have made a mess of this place. I don't envy you for the hangover you're gonna have tomorrow either because, my God, you are going to feel like…"

A loud, rattling snore echoes around the room.

Steve then realises that Tony has fallen asleep on him, mouth lolling open. And drooling.

"Great. Now I have to move a dead weight. Fantastic." Steve says to no one in particular, sighing and rubbing his eyes. He is far too tired for this.

He climbs out of the car and crosses to Tony's side. One arm round his waist, he half drags, half lifts Tony from the seat, the other man muttering under his breath and vaguely resisting being moved.

" 'm sorry, Steve…" he mumbles.

Steve sighs, and fireman-lifts Tony over one shoulder, carefully stepping over and around the debris littering the floor before brushing his fingers down the keypad to kill the lights as he leaves.

"Night, Jarvis."

"Goodnight, sir. And thank you."

"Don't mention it." Steve mutters, readjusting Tony's weight and earning a sleepy grunt in response.

...

After much struggling, Steve finally manages to parcel Tony into bed. He has somehow coaxed him out of his shirt and suit trousers, but can't quite force him into pyjamas. So Tony is currently lying under the blankets in just his boxers. Steve had to choke back a laugh when he saw the  _Superman_  pattern on them. He feels a little pang of something, and wonders what Tony would say if Steve ever told him how endearing it was to see the mighty, charismatic Tony Stark wearing superhero-patterned underwear… Nothing good, he imagines, almost sadly.

When he returns with a glass of water and an aspirin bottle he sees Tony has star-fished sideways across the bed, blankets tangled around his body in what looks like a very uncomfortable mesh. Steve puts the glass and bottle on the bedside table and sits down next to him.

He has come to realise that the only time Tony Stark looks truly peaceful is when he is either working, or completely and totally unconscious. He doesn't look much younger, granted, but it's a nice change from seeing his face contorted with sarcasm or condescension. Steve likes it best when Tony looks this way, because actually, he looks rather…  _beautiful_. For a man.

And he catches himself with that thought, a little shocked. Where the hell did that come from?

He finds himself brushing a stray hair away from Tony's eyes, and that's when Tony mumbles, "… mmm, Steve…"

He freezes, hand hovering above Tony's head. Tony smacks his lips and mushes his face further into the pillows.

"Mm'yeah… like you… Steve…"

As his heart starts to thud erratically and inexplicably in his chest, Steve can't help but smile.

...

He hears a sigh, and through the haze of drink and sleep Tony can just about make out the words, "Yeah, Tony, I, uh, I like you too."

And for a second he is confused, because that sounds a lot like Steve Rogers, and why would Steve be in his bedroom in the middle of the night? Plus he doesn't remember ever saying he liked Steve… He's pretty sure he'd remember saying that if he did. As if he'd ever say something that made him sound so pathetic? Not to mention the fact that he is approximately 87% sure he hasn't quite decided  _what_  he feels about Steve anyway…

And actually, Tony suddenly thinks, and not without painful effort, why is he in bed in the first place? How did he get here? Last thing he remembers is rooting around for the second bottle of whiskey hiding in the compartment under the footwell in his Audi… And, hold on one second,  _where the hell are his pants?_

He opens one eye very slowly, trying to make it look like it is still closed, and through the tiny sliver of vision, he sees Steve Rogers sat by his bed, watching him sleep.

"What in the actual fuck is going on here?" Tony thinks, before sliding back into drunken, sleep-clad oblivion.

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters!_


	4. Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a teeny tiny snippet because the montage chapter I'm writing has a much lighter tone to it, and this little creature just didn't fit, so it had to exist as a single entity, hence why it's only about 600 words!

He's in a diner in downtown New York. It's small, and it's cramped, but Tony likes it. The food is dripping with fat and grease, the tablecloths are sticky, there is a permanent smell of deep-fat fryer engrained in the very walls and a tang of stale coffee in the air, but Tony likes those things too. That, and the staff know him, which means they know to leave him alone. Which is always a plus.

The bell above the door tinkles, and the chef shouts a greeting. Tony looks up, and locks eyes with Steve Rogers.

He's clutching his jacket, embarrassed, fingers buried in the fabric. _Oh, what in the hell is this about_ , Tony wonders into his burger. Steve comes to a stop by his elbow.

"Hey, Tony."

Tony presses his fingers into his eyes. He just wants to eat his burger in peace, is that really too much to ask?

"Hey, uh, Steve. Hi," he smiles wearily over his shoulder up at him, "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

The smile doesn't reach his eyes. They look tired, and something about that tugs quietly at Steve's heart. Mouth twitching nervously, his carefully planned words elude him. The silence stretches on awkwardly.

Tony sighs and turns to face Steve properly, "Steve, what do you want? My burger's gonna get cold if I don't eat it pretty soon, so uh, why exactly are you here?"

A pained look flickers across the soldier's face, but within seconds, he has composed himself. There is conviction, as well as a glint of sadness, in his eyes as he meets Tony's gaze.

"I just wanted to properly say something to you, Tony. About," he pauses and looks at his feet, shifting nervously from one foot to another, "…about what I said to you that day on the helicarrier. It's been on my mind a lot, and I honestly didn't mean to be so unkind, but I wasn't thinking straight, none of us were; Loki's mind voodoo or something like that, but uh," his hands haven't kept still, folding and unfolding around his jacket, fidgeting, "I never apologised for it, so, uh, I just wanted to do that."

His eyes meet Tony's again, full of something Tony can't quite place, and it perturbs him.

"I'm sorry, Tony."

When Tony doesn't respond immediately with some easy retort, Steve scrambles for words, "But can I also say that you  _did_  ignore me when I told you the thing with the nuke was a one way trip."

And Tony doesn't react to that either until Steve quietly utters the words, "I know what that feels like." His face is open, honest, lines of pain now etched on it to be read like a book, and in a soft voice, he says, "I wasn't supposed to come back either…"  
And to that, all of a sudden, Tony has no quick, easy response. He is lost for words. For once, he doesn't want to quip, to respond with patronising sarcasm.

"I'm glad you made it back, Tony, really."

Steve shrugs sadly, "You're the closest friend I've got right now."

The sharp ache that sears through Tony's chest is the most inexplicable thing he's ever experienced, and suddenly, he isn't hungry any more.


	5. We're Gonna Need a Montage

Tony leans against the doorframe of Steve's office, first coffee of the day in hand, despite the fact it's 3pm and he only just got up. It's been about a month since Steve surprised him with the apology in the diner, and since then, they've been spending a fair amount of time in each other's company, more often than not in companionable silence in Tony's lab. And by companionable silence, he means he plays whatever music he wants and Steve puts up with Tony's choices. That, and his singing.

Bruce checks in from time to time, alternating between Tony's lab and his own. They exchange notes and ideas at such a pace that even if the words they're speaking are, in fact, English, which he often suspects they're not, they slide completely over Steve's head. He doesn't attempt to join in the techno-babble, he just waves hello to Bruce and lets them get on with whatever science-y things they need to get on with. Most days he sits in what has now become "his" chair and sketches for hours.

It's a fair arrangement. Tony makes clever technological things, and Steve makes coffee. Tony was relieved to find that Steve is pretty good at coffee, because if there's anything Tony Stark hates, it's a bad cup o' joe. As far as he's concerned, bad coffee is practically punishable by death. Considering the sheer volume he drinks, and the amount of time over the course of his life he's spent drinking it, there are no excuses when it comes to coffee. Nope, no excuses whatsoever.

So thank the Lord Steve appears to have been a barista in some former life.

...

Over the weeks since Loki's hostile takeover bid, Tony has been slowly (for Tony) introducing Steve to technology. He decided against introduction by chronological date of invention, and instead went straight for the latest and greatest. Easier than explaining all the outdated tech and telling him it was useless and archaic anyway – probably less hurtful too, what with it just being a reminder of how much Steve had missed in such a short space of time.

So Tony made the conscious decision to make it as painless as possible. Which was pretty damn nice of him, all things considered, and everybody said so. And not, he noticed, without hint of suspicion on Clint, Bruce, and Natasha's part. Tony waved away the comments, expressly choosing not to respond to Bruce's pointed glances between them whenever he checked in to discuss new developments, or Clint's wiggling eyebrows and "hey, hey" winks and nudges whenever he saw him and Steve sat together, Steve puzzling over some new gadget, absorbed and utterly oblivious.

At some point Tony noticed that Steve gets a little wrinkle in his forehead when he's really concentrating.

Tony notices a lot of things.

...

Steve's number is stored under "Gramps" in Tony's contacts, precisely because he's about as capable with a mobile phone as most old people. As in, he just isn't. It is as ridiculous as it is endearing, if he's honest, especially the part where Steve hasn't realised (or perhaps just won't accept that) it isn't necessary to end every text message with "Sincerely, Cap. Steve Rogers".

Much as it completely defeats the point of brief, to-the-point communication, Tony smiles whenever he sees Steve's sign-off on his screen. And hey, maybe one day Steve will even work out how to turn off caps lock.

...

As far as games consoles go, Steve isn't bad at all. He picks up the controls quickly, once he's tried a level or two. Of course, games involving anything to do with the Second World War are a no-go, as Tony found out completely by accident when he slapped a controller into Steve's hand and loaded Castle Wolfenstein. The results were not pretty. Suffice to say, SHIELD got through a fair few punching bags that weekend.

They decided to steer clear of all first person shooters from that point on. Aside from the weekly Wii Sports matches with the rest of the team, Steve's current favourite game appears to be Animal Crossing, and as he watches Steve's stars-and-stripes-clad avatar digging up fossils and paying his mortgage, Tony can't help but be amused to the point of hysterics.

That said, the hula hooping on the Wii is an altogether different viewing experience. Natasha once elbowed him unceremoniously in the ribs when she caught him staring at Steve's frankly, and Tony wonders why he never noticed before, rather  _magnificent_  ass as he hula-hooped on the Fitboard.

"Close your mouth, Tony, you'll catch flies," she smirked at him.

He huffed, and snapped his mouth shut, embarrassed at being caught, wondering from the way she was still smirking whether or not she could actually read his mind.

He hoped the answer was no, because if she could, she would be smirking even harder at what she found there.

...

He has just about managed to explain the internet to Steve. Just about. Watching him discover YouTube was indescribable. He's still surprised how little it agitates him, watching Steve fail miserably to grasp the simplest technological concepts. Like that time he tried to explain the iPad.

"Steve, just swipe all four fingers to the left, no, the left. Steve, what direction do you think left is? No, no, don't  _rotate_  it left! And I said  _four_ fingers… Oh just give it to me, let me show you, you probably learn better by watching anyway, right, it's a soldier thing…"

He didn't see Steve's smile as he busied himself with prodding the device.

Essentially, Tony's being very,  _very_ , uncharacteristically, patient, which is surprising to everyone. Normally, if you haven't grasped the concept within minutes, he gets angry and gives up on the endeavour, leaving you to fend for yourself, floundering in the fickle world of technology.

Not so with Steve. With Steve, somehow, every mistake is absolutely charming. Tony expected people to comment, loudly and often, on how strange it was that he wasn't getting aggravated as he normally would, but no one had said a word, just exchanged what he believes to be "knowing" glances. He hopes they aren't being "knowing" about what he  _thinks_  they're being "knowing" about.

On top of all the technology, he doesn't think Cap could deal with what he is 92% (ish) sure is, and it's even embarrassing to think it, a  _crush._

Tony wants to put it down to spending too much time in close quarters, really he does, but a large part of him knows that's just bullshit.

Somehow, and utterly inexplicably, he has come to like Steve Rogers.

In an increasingly non-platonic way. In a  _like_ like way.

And he doesn't really know how he feels about that quite yet.

...

And so today, Tony finds himself standing outside Steve's office, watching what is possibly  _the_  funniest thing he has ever seen in his entire life. Aside from the Animal Crossing thing.

Steve Rogers is sat at his desktop computer, alternating between clicking everywhere on the screen and frantically button mashing, hitting the escape key with such force that Tony is genuinely shocked it doesn't disintegrate. The screen is full of spam pop up ads and the sound coming from the speakers, at very high volume he might add, is what can only be described as a classic 70s porn soundtrack, complete with moaning, gasping, utterly comical sound effects.

Steve's face is redder than a British telephone box, and Tony is fairly sure he hears him utter a string of colourful swearwords.  _Well well well_ , he thinks,  _so Captain Rogers_ does _know how to use profanities once in a while. How about that._

Steve does a double take when he sees Tony standing in the doorway, and wails, face in his hands, "Tony, how the hell do I make it stop? Oh my  _God_ , what even IS that! I'm pressing escape but nothing's happening! They won't go away, oh God,  _how do I turn it off_?"  
Tony chokes back his laughter, not without difficulty, and tries to compose himself. He sidles into the room, feigning obliviousness.

"Steve, what the hell is this, what are you doing…?" He stops in front of the screen, and suddenly a particularly piercing moan shudders through the speakers near his head, "Oh. OH. Oh my God, Steve, were you looking at…?  _Steve Rogers is that pornography_?"

Steve blanches and looks like he's experiencing extreme physical pain, the embarrassment is so profound. Tony's lungs ache from holding back laughter. He just about manages to contain himself and tuts, "I really hope I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing, Steve. Jesus, you could've at least shut the door if you were gonna…"

Steve's bright red face radiates shock, blue eyes wide and eyebrows so far up his forehead that Tony silently thinks it's a miracle they don't disappear into his hairline, and he blurts, "God, Tony,  _no_! I mean, I just, I clicked the tiny letter because the machine said I had mail from Clint and it said it was urgent... and then, oh my God, Tony, I had the speakers on  _full volume_ , I think I gave someone a heart attack…"

Tony can't hold back the laughter anymore and it explodes out of him, just about drowning out the sex noises coming from the computer, but not quite. He doubles over laughing, spilling coffee on the floor, clutching at his side.

Wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, he actually looks at the screen properly.  _Clint, I gotta hand it to you, this was a stroke of genius. Why in the hell didn't I think of this first?_  
He makes a face, and Steve looks absolutely horrified as he says, "No, no, no,  _God no_! You don't want  _this_  site, Steve,  _this_  site  _sucks_! Clint clearly has appalling taste… I mean seriously… Oh, whaddya know, I know that girl, vaguely remember her from that fundraiser thing last week... or maybe it was her sister…"  
Steve is so red in the face that just looking at him sends Tony back into spasms of laughter. The colour has crept all the way down his neck and he looks like he's blushing so hard he'd be red all the way down to his toes.  
Tony attempts to compose himself, sides aching from laughing so hard, "Scooch over, Cap."

He lazily hits a few keys, clicks open a new email window to Clint, and fires off a quick reply, "Clint, Steve totally traumatised. Good job, keep 'em coming".

Steve looks utterly bewildered at how quickly Tony is able to solve the problem he has been literally attacking for half an hour.

Tony stands up and smirks round at him, "There you go buddy, no more sex ad spam. Don't thank me; first service is on the house."

He slaps Steve on the back, and leaves the room, grinning from ear to ear.

...

Steve misses his motorcycle. He's been meaning to fix the problem with the engine for a while, but he just hasn't managed to find the time. Other things keep cropping up, distracting him. He's just been so busy recently. The bike isn't a priority, but she still means a lot to him, and he feels vaguely guilty for not trying harder to make time to fix her.

Glossy black in the harsh light of the parking garage, she's waiting for him. It always makes him smile to see her, and though he knows it won't work, he still straddles the bike, smoothes his hand over the cold metal, and goes to start her.

The bike roars into life. She purrs underneath him and Steve is genuinely shocked. He couldn't get so much as a cough out of her when he'd last left her, and unless he'd fixed her in his sleep – which he hadn't, because he barely sleeps – she should still be out of action. He sits there a while, very confused, until he dismounts and finds a piece of heavy graph paper stuck to his leg, which he assumes transferred from the bike's body to the fabric of his jeans as he stood up.

He unfolds it, unsure of its contents, but what he finds written there is the last thing he would've expected.

In what can only be Tony's untidy scrawl, are the words " _Heard she was a little under the weather, think I managed to fix that for you"_.

The bike still purring happily, Steve has to sit down again, because his head is spinning just a little.

Does this mean what he thinks it means?

What he naively  _hopes_  it means?

...

"Steve, be a pal and sketch me a skyline would you? This one here," he throws the image into the air, where it hangs like blue glass, "I need it for a prototype I'm working on."

Steve looks up from his sketchbook, startled from his reverie. He's been frantically sketching for about an hour.

He scratches behind his ear absent-mindedly with the end of the pencil, and unbidden, Tony thinks,  _adorable_. "Sure, uh, when do you need it by?"

"Oh no rush, a week or so?" Tony shrugs, trying to shake out the thought. They keep creeping up on him, and he keeps trying to push them back where they came from. Out of mind.

Steve nods, that lopsided smile of his briefly lighting up his face. Then, brow furrowed in the way it does, he sinks back into concentration.

They lapse into silence, broken only by the scratching of Steve's pencils, the clicking and whirring of Tony's tech, the jazz waltzing through the sound system.

Some time later, Tony gets the feeling he's being watched. Considering there's no one in the room aside from the two of them, Tony feels justified in pulling up a camera feed. In a small window on the screen to his left, the camera pans towards Steve's face and, for no real reason, Tony stops it there.

He is staring at Tony intently, pencil moving swiftly across the page of his sketchbook.  _Funny, I don't remember commissioning a portrait,_ Tony muses.

This continues for the better part of two hours. At that point, Tony starts to get twitchy.

Steve suddenly sighs, a loud, satisfied exhalation of air, and Tony can't help jumping at the noise, trying to disguise it by turning to a different workbench and fiddling with something. Steve flips the sketchbook closed and smiles over at him.

"Tony, I'm gonna go grab a coffee, you want one?"  
Composed, Tony raises an eyebrow, "You do realise what a stupid question that is, right? When do I ever turn down coffee?"

Steve smiles that smile again, and sidles out of the lab. The door has barely closed behind him when Tony seizes the chance to sneak a peek at his sketchbook.

And what he finds is a complete surprise. After a couple of pages of rough cityscapes, like he'd asked for, there are sketches of Clint, Bruce, Coulson, Fury, two of Natasha and only one of Thor,  _the big guy's never around or sat still long enough to get a good handle on him_ , Tony guesses. Then there are doodles, stars and stripes, the SHIELD insignia, battle scenes. And then there are other things. Eyes, lips, hands, shoulders, and suddenly Tony can't help but think the disembodied parts are all a little too familiar.

Because they're his.

He turns the page to find the rest of the book, more than half of it in fact, stuffed to bursting with sketches of him.

Tony absently realises his mouth is hanging open and his heart is doing that weird skittery thing again.  
The hiss of the lab door makes him quickly slam the sketchbook shut with a snap, and he is very grateful that there is a large piece of machinery hiding him from the doorway as he scuttles back to his workbench. Steve slides his coffee towards him with a grin and settles down to his drawing again.

Tony doesn't mention the sketches.

...

It wasn't a very exceptional night. There was nothing special about it. Actually, insofar as being part of a team of superheroes constantly battling maniacs and/or the forces of evil in order to protect the human race and the planet they inhabit, it was as ordinary a night as you could get.

Tony is reasonably drunk, and this is fairly normal, standard in fact, as is the melancholy that has settled around him.

Steve's presence at his side, however, is more unusual. It's a well-established fact that in a mood like this, Tony Stark drinks alone. But then again, something has definitely been changing, Tony can feel it. Though what he is as yet unaware of is that Steve can feel it too.

It started off as a fairly average after-work drink, but one by one, the team had peeled off, leaving Tony and Steve alone at the bar.

To ease the awkwardness that had descended over them, Tony has upped the pace of the drinking. In hindsight, it probably wasn't his best idea to date. He's been rambling. More to the point, he's fairly sure he's been oversharing, but he's just drunk enough not to care too much. He's about reached the point where he stops counting how many glasses of whiskey he's had to drink, when he mumbles absent-mindedly,

"Good thing you can't get drunk, Cap, because when you're drunk, in case it escaped your notice, you let your walls down. Walls you probably should've left up."  
Steve smiles that lopsided smile of his, the one that, recently, never fails to make Tony's heart falter.

He looks directly at him, and with the absolute honesty that only Steve can manage, quietly, completely seriously, says,

"With you, Tony, I don't have any walls."

As if on cue, in the background, the strains of Shirley Bassey's "Something" come floating through the jukebox.

_Something in the way he smiles,_

_And I don't need no other lover,_

_Something in his style that shows me,_

_I don't want to leave him now,_

_You know I believe him how_

_You're asking me, will our love grow?_

_I don't know, oh, I don't know,_

_You stick around now it may show,_

_I don't know, oh, I don't know_

Steve goes bright red. Tony clears his throat, and waves his empty glass at the barkeep.

"Check, please."

 


	6. The Pizza Boy

Due to renovations and development at Stark Tower, Tony has been forced to return to his mansion in Malibu until the contractors have vacated the New York premises. He weeps for his plush carpets and polished wooden floors likely being scuffed to hideous oblivion by dirty boots.

Tony doesn't like sweaty workmen.

For reasons unknown to him, Steve has been posted with him, an uninvited houseguest. Tony has a sneaking suspicion Fury is trying to put a detail on him, to keep an eye on his movements, but as it's Steve, he finds he doesn't really mind so much.

What he doesn't know is that Steve volunteered.

Most days, the captain is with him in the lab, just like in the tower back in New York. Sometimes he spends time just sitting close by and watching Tony work, learning a little bit more about technology by accident, just by observing the process. He's more of a mechanic than a theorist, Steve. Tony's seen the way he looks when he's working on his motorcycle. He wonders if his own face shows the same kind of intense concentration mixed with wonderment when he's absorbed in his work. Probably, he figures.

As a result of not having someone around to make him eat with at least some semblance of regularity, Tony hasn't been eating properly. Jarvis never could make him eat because, well, Jarvis can't force a burger into his hand, can he?  
Forgetting to eat for significant periods of time is a fairly common occurrence for Tony; he's never been one for dietary routine. Some days he can't even recall the last thing he ate, the last thing to pass his lips that wasn't whiskey or coffee.

In any case, what happened at the Malibu house, happened gradually. One day, Tony found a pizza box perched on his workbench, a mouth-watering pepperoni and cheese-loaded masterpiece, with no note, and no explanation. After that, they appeared regularly, every three days or so, always without anything to identify them by.

Tony was vaguely amused by the idea that he had a secret admirer bringing him pizza, but seeing as only a very select few people could even access the lab, his list of suspects was short.

After a couple of weeks, Tony has managed to isolate the exact time the next "delivery" should occur. It always materialises when he's out of the lab, naturally. He could, of course, have just watched the security footage, have dusted for prints even, but where was the fun in that?

And so, this particular day, Tony is present when the mystery pizza delivery service appears.  
He smiles as they walk through the door, suspicions confirmed, and he finds himself utterly unsurprised.

"So  _you're_ the one who's been bringing me delicious Italian doughy goodness."

Steve stops abruptly, look of shock on his face, clearly surprised to see Tony stood there waiting for him, but he smiles his lopsided grin and leaves the pizza on the table.

"Got me," he raises his hands in defeat, laughing, "Just make sure you eat up, okay? You always forget to finish them!"

He grins over his shoulder, and exits the lab as quickly as he came in.

Tony saunters over, mystery solved, and grabs a slice. He crams it into his mouth and settles back down to work, a lazy smile on his face.

...

And so they sank into a comfortable routine. Steve sits sketching, tucked in a corner, Tony tinkers away, saving mankind one terrifying prototype at a time. And every week, there's pizza.

"Yknow, Rogers, seeing as you actually do have a motorcycle, you should definitely become a pizza delivery boy. As a sort of day job." Tony muses one day. He waves his soldering iron through the air, picturing a banner, "Steve Rogers, pizza delivery boy, extraordinaire." He grins over at the captain.

Steve chuckles at this, and Tony likes the sound, "Very funny, Tony, but we both know I already have a day job. A full time day job, actually. Being Captain America is a pretty time-consuming thing."

Tony fakes offense, "Oh and being Iron Man  _isn't_?"

"Oh can it, Tony, you know I didn't mean it like that," Steve laughs.

"No, see, now I'm all offended." He twizzles a wrench in his fingers, "How're you gonna make it up to me?"

Steve stops sketching, "I'm sorry, what?"

And Tony smirks at him, "You offended me, Rogers, how're you gonna make it up to me? And don't say pizza. The pizza is a pre-established thing, it can't be pizza."

Steve rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. He closes his sketchbook and tucks his pencil behind his ear, and raises an eyebrow.

"Well, I've always wanted to try fondue…"

And there's a split second of something wicked in his eyes, before he takes a sip of coffee from his mug, and Tony remembers all the jokes about Steve thinking fondue meant something entirely other than a cheese and bread-based meal, and Tony thinks,  _dear God, did Steve Rogers just insinuate something sexual?_

...

Some days later, Tony is halfway under a car when he hears a tray put down somewhere on the table near his feet.

"Thanks, Steve", comes his automatic reply.

The moment of silence that follows is shortly punctuated by a cough. A very feminine cough.

Tony scoots out from under the car expecting to find Natasha, sent as a harbinger of doom from Nick Fury's side like his own personal harpy.

Instead, he finds himself staring into the eyes of none other than Miss Pepper Potts.

He flaps his mouth open and closed. Pepper drops her eyes to the floor and waits for him to find the breath to speak.

"Oh, uh, hi there, uh, Pepper."

He closes his mouth, throwing his tools into their box, and standing up as calmly as he is capable of doing so in this particular moment.

"It's been a while, huh? So, uh, what brings you here? Back here, here. Uh, back?"

Pepper laughs quietly, "Well, you know, just making sure you hadn't starved yourself to death without me." She motions to the tray.

Pizza. New York pizza. Hand imported from New York.  
Tony's heart spasms as a memory of Obie flashes in his mind, before he abruptly shoves  _that_  back down into the dark recesses where it belongs.

Pepper's sigh breaks the tense silence, eyes on the floor.

"I know we haven't spoken in, uh, quite some time…" She trails off, then seems to give herself a little shake, "I wanted to say sorry, Tony. For leaving things the way we did. I just… I needed to get away for a while."

"Plus I needed to sort out the mess you created, so thanks for that," she laughs a little sadly.

Tony's mouth jerks into a strained half smile that dissolves back into nothingness as he considers her.

When Pepper looks up at him, he is vaguely surprised to see sadness in her eyes. She gives a strange little stifled hiccup, and his resolve to hate her crumbles.

How could he ever hate Pepper? Patient, wonderful Pepper; how many times had she been there for him at his worst? And now, despite everything, she's here again. She's come back, though he knows he doesn't deserve it. As an ache stirs in his chest, it dawns on him just how much he's missed her.

He sees tears creep into her eyes, the side of her mouth twitch, and then he finds himself wrapping her in an awkward hug, crushing her tight. She lets the tears fall, and Tony says nothing, does nothing, but holds her until they slow and stop. He owes her that much, at the very, very least.

They sit for what feels like hours, just talking. Explaining events they've missed in the time they've been absent from each other's lives. And Tony knows they can salvage the friendship. The thought warms his heart.  
They sit close together on the workbench, Pepper's hand resting on top of his, not holding it, just existing there. And the barest contact of skin is enough. They slip back into comfortable, quiet conversation.

Then, all of a sudden, Tony finds himself talking about Steve. He doesn't know how long he's been doing that, but there is a strange light in Pepper's eyes as he catches her gaze mid-sentence.

"I mean I… What? What is it?" He asks.

She smiles, and suddenly there are tears in her eyes again, "Oh Tony, you don't even know yet do you?"

Tony blinks,  _I don't know what yet?_

Pepper laughs, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, and she just shakes her head.

Then Tony frowns,  _have I missed something here?_

..

Steve stands outside, pizza box growing cold in his hands. His heart constricts in his chest as he sees the pizza box on the worktop, and from the logo emblazoned across every side he knows where it's from.

When he sees Tony put his hand on Pepper's leg, something cold and vile curdles in his throat, settles in the pit of his stomach, burning like acid.

He sees Pepper lean in towards Tony, and he can't look any more.

He leaves the box on the floor, hands clenching into fists.

His eyes sting.

..

Tony feels lighter. The weight is gone, the ache soothed. They parted ways content, Pepper's reconciliatory visit a warm, soft balm on her recent absence from his life. Things aren't fine, he doubts they ever will be, him being who he is and how he is, but things are better. And for now, that is good enough for him.

Not long after Pepper leaves, Tony finds a familiar pizza box, abandoned by the door.

He doesn't see Steve for a week.

No intergalactic villains come to take over the Earth, so the team doesn't assemble.

But Steve's motorcycle is gone from the parking bay, and Tony's phone remains silent, no messages, no calls, nothing.

Tony doesn't understand.

And he can't think of many things he hates more in this world than being left in the dark.

...

It's lunchtime, or thereabouts, and Tony slouches bleary-eyed and yawning into the lab, clutching his clean t-shirt in one hand, body begging him for coffee. Despite not receiving a single message or call from Steve in days, Tony'll be damned if he calls him first. Tony Stark isn't the type of person to check up on someone. That said, he's been sleeping even less well than usual with Steve's inexplicable disappearance (because he'd be bare-faced lying if he said he wasn't worried) and as the days pass, the hours of sleep he can snatch are fewer and fewer.

He rounds the corner by his workbench and immediately lets out a high-pitched yelp of shock when he notices Steve sat, quite still, in his usual spot, nursing his mug.

Steve smiles a sad sort of half smile up at him, eyes apologetic. Moments pass in silence as they contemplate each other. Tony thinks fleetingly that he must look like hell, and bizarrely, wishes he'd at least brushed his hair.

Steve breaks the silence first.

"Hey, Tony."

Recovered from the shock, Tony promptly explodes.

"Where the  _fuck_  have you been, Rogers? You can't just up and run away like that, I had no idea what had happened to you! Where did you go? And why?  _What happened?_ "

Steve suddenly looks tired, and it crosses Tony's mind that the captain looks like he could use some decent sleep as much as him. Steve's mouth folds into a hard line at the barrage of questions, and for a moment he looks for all the world like he has something important to say. But then he bites it back. He calmly turns to lift his head up and look Tony in the eye.

"I had to, uh, get out of here for a while, Tony. I went back to New York. Something came up. Something, uh," he sighs, "something personal."  
He turns those sad eyes to Tony again, and Tony desperately tries to read the truth in the deep, blue pools, because he is damn sure that Steve is keeping that personal something from him (whatever the hell it is) and he wants to know why.

It must be a pretty big something.

"Sorry," Steve murmurs, "I should've said… I didn't realise you'd worry about me so much… "

Tony purses his lips and shoots Steve a look as if to say "I wasn't worried, who said I was worried?", before abruptly realising he is currently t-shirt-less, and hurriedly pulling it over his head, grumbling.

"You could've at least left me a fucking  _note_ , Steve, before you disappeared to the other side of the fucking country."

He goes to his bench, feeling a strange mixture of curious, angry, and something else that he can't place, and he falters when he sees there is a cup of coffee waiting for him, just about the right temperature by now. He collapses into his chair, and glances round at Steve, motioning to the cup to signal that he requires an  _explanation_.

Steve shrugs dejectedly.

"You're normally not up and about 'til about this time, so I figured the first thing you'd want is a cup of coffee…"

And Tony can't think of anything clever to say to that, so he just growls and snatches up the cup to hide his loss for words, tapping his access code into the computer in front of him.

Systems whir into life, but the silence stretches on as the two men sip at their drinks.

Steve comes to lean on the workbench beside Tony, who fidgets and studiously ignores him for at least a minute.

"So, uh, how's Pepper?" Steve asks, the question cutting through the silence.

Momentarily distracted by a development in one of his prototype simulations, Tony absent-mindedly begins to reply, "Oh, she's  _fine_ , she is doing  _just fine_ , hey, wait,"

He spins abruptly to face Steve, "When did  _you_  see Pepper?"

Steve just looks down at the floor, rolling his coffee cup between his hands.

And Tony suddenly remembers the cold pizza box outside the door, remembers sitting close to Pepper,  _perhaps too close_ , his hand on her leg, and then it all clicks into place. Painfully simple really, if you know what you're looking for. Tony curses under his breath for not putting two and two together sooner. What must have gone through Steve's mind when he'd seen that?

Although why exactly he was upset about it enough to go to the other side of the continent, Tony can't begin to fathom.

So he probes.

"Are you honestly telling me that you ran away," he pauses, "because Pepper brought me a  _pizza_?"  
He knows he's being deliberately obtuse, but he wants to goad the truth from Steve. He won't get a straight answer if he just outright asks the question he really wants to ask. So it sits unsaid on the tip of his tongue, itching. He takes a swig of coffee and fixes Steve with a look, one eyebrow raised.

Steve doesn't meet his gaze, just sighs and shifts his weight from foot to foot, and his voice is sad as he says,

"It was from  _New York_ ,Tony,from  _New York_. You don't just bring someone a pizza all the way from  _New York_."

The tension is visible in his skin. Tony can see it pains him, strangely, to say those words. And he wonders just how long Steve has been wrangling with this.  _Since the second it happened probably, you absolute_ _ **idiot**_ , his brain mutters darkly back.

He sighs, and rubs his eyes with his fingers.

"Steve, I don't know how they did things back in the Stone Age, but bringing someone pizza, when they, one, have a jet, and two, essentially work for you? Not really a big deal. Plus," he adds, "pizza from New York is inextricably linked with bad news, although Pepper wouldn't give me all the details, but still..."

Steve doesn't buy it; Tony can see that in the dismissive shake of his head. He pushes himself up from the bench and moves to walk away, and Tony doesn't stop him. What else is he supposed to say?

But the sight of Steve's slumped shoulders is enough to make him grope for the right words. He has to try to say something, to explain himself, God knows why, but he feels he has to.

"Steve, seriously?  _Nothing_  is going on with me and Pepper."

He sees Steve nod slightly, but he is already withdrawing, turning in on himself.

Tony throws his hands up in exasperation. He doesn't get it. Why do ridiculous, complicated, emotionally charged situations like this always happen to  _him_? He isn't good at  _feelings_. He is good at science, at cold, hard fact. He isn't good at understanding  _people_ , he is good at understanding  _things_. He doesn't know how to deal with fluffy, emotional bullshit. He doesn't understand it.

A frustrated sigh escapes him.

Steve stops abruptly, almost as if something has suddenly occurred to him that he had somehow previously overlooked, and he turns on his heel to stalk back towards Tony, who is naturally a little disturbed by the sudden change in mood.

"Uh, Steve?" Tony retreats back against his chair, hands out in front of him, not quite touching Steve to stop him advancing, but almost.

Then Steve's face is an inch from his, his brow set, eyes hard. He grabs Tony and hauls him to his feet.

"I'm gonna ask you a question, and so help me, Tony, for once in your life you're gonna give me a straight answer."

Tony's mind is racing.  _What the fuck is this, he disappears for a week and now he's back grabbing me and shaking me and asking me questions and demanding answers? Why is he so angry? Have I missed something here?_

Expecting interrogation, or, at the least, some difficult explanations, Tony winces in anticipation.

But Steve just stands there, fingers digging into Tony's shoulders.

"Uh, Steve?" Tony asks, cautious of the tension he can feel in Steve's fingers.

Steve's eyes flicker, and Tony sees a flash of panic, of doubt. All of a sudden, Steve releases him, and looks like he's going to bolt, but Tony grabs him, fingers an iron grip round the captain's arm. It's  _his_  turn to demand answers.

"Oh no, Rogers, you have been AWOL for a week, you are going to tell me  _right now_  what the  _hell_  is going on."

Steve lets out a strangled noise and wrenches his arm free, his face twisting in distress as he tries to fight the urge to say something, and Tony finds himself aching to know what Steve can't bring himself to say.

Then Steve growls in sheer frustration, and shakes his head, "God, Tony, for a genius, you can be so  _stupid_  sometimes," and he leaves Tony standing there, bewildered, watching Steve's retreating back as he stalks out of the lab.


	7. Clash

The reporter is laughing, "Fantastic, fantastic. Now, there have been rumours of a certain engagement. Care to elaborate, Miss Potts?"  
She smiles warmly into the camera, and says only, "No comment," as the man beside her slips his arm round her waist, their faces a picture of pure contentment and serenity. He is clearly besotted with her, but not in that smothering, overpowering way.

In that perfectly, hideously content way.

Tony's first thought is,  _she looks really happy_.

Tony's next thought is,  _she looks happier_ _ **with someone that isn't me.**_

The remote sails into the wall by the TV screen, batteries flying in opposite directions as the back panel snaps free.

Tony vaguely hears the newsreader cut to the next story, but his mind is already elsewhere, curling in on itself, small and foetal, for protection. The familiar dull ache of inextricable rage and sadness is building in his chest, and Tony mutters the command to turn off the TV.

He doesn't know what he expected to happen after their dysfunctional relationship dissolved, if he's honest. He never gave it a moment's conscious thought because it was too painful. His  _failure_  was painful, and that's what it was, if he allows himself to admit it. A colossal, staggering,  _cataclysmic_  failure. After Pepper turned up unannounced at his lab, Tony had thought distantly that, maybe, she wanted to salvage their relationship. Frankly, he doesn't know if he wants that or not, but what he  _does_ know is that he still wants Pepper in his life. He needs her. Even if it's just as an anchor, selfish as that may be, to keep him grounded. No one can curb his wild outbursts, calm his rages, and tame his impulsive behaviour as well as Pepper can. No one keeps him in check like she does.

Somewhat surprisingly, now, when Tony thinks of her in that way - as his rock, his safety mechanism - Steve also comes to mind. Apparently, he has begun to associate the captain with the same behaviours. Steve's manner is calm too, and he has been known to soothe Tony's rages just as well as Pepper, if not better. Perhaps for lack of complicated history or "unprofessional" involvement, maybe, but Tony doesn't think about that. These days Steve is just as much his rock as Pepper is, or perhaps, it dawns on him, _was_.

He recalls the look on Steve's face as he stormed out of the lab three days ago to vanish again. This time, however, Tony knows where he has disappeared off to. He'd had Jarvis place a tracker on Steve's motorcycle as soon as it had re-entered the parking bay that particular morning, anchored discretely under the bodywork, because quite honestly, he'll be damned if he lets the captain just disappear on him like that again.

This sudden possessiveness he is feeling over Steve is rather alien to him, not because he isn't a possessive man (he most certainly is), but because he has never in his life been possessive of another person, with the exception of Pepper Potts. Things, yes. People, never.

As Tony stares at the black TV screen, the image of Pepper and that  _new_   _guy_  burned into his retinas, sharp tendrils of rage and sadness coil up and claw at him. Shards of pain dig deep into places he could never reach to pull them out. They ache, and the dull roar of it seems to stretch on endlessly into a resigned numbness that he knows he will have to carry with him. Yet more baggage to trip him up, to weigh him down and drown him. He _needs_  Pepper, and yes, it is selfish, but he can't bring himself to care, or be sorry about it. Who the hell is this guy to take her from him?

How has she moved on so easily, while he still can't face his own feelings long enough to get a handle on what they actually are?

Tony's fingers twitch around his whiskey glass. His own reflection ripples mockingly back up at him from the depths of the amber liquid.

 _They can go to hell_ , he thinks bitterly, acidic rage curdling in his stomach, and he empties the glass into his mouth, grateful for the familiar trail of fire it leaves as it burns its way down his throat.

The sudden, uncontrollable urge to smash something into a thousand tiny pieces grips him, and he wonders vaguely if this is how Bruce feels just before he loses it. The anger sears though him, simmering hotly in his gut, and it takes a lot to place the glass calmly back on the tray by his elbow. The vein in his temple is thrumming, and as a writhing mass of emotion swells in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him and drag him out to sea, Tony makes a decision.

It's time to go and do what Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, does best. He is going to shut down, to drown his thoughts in an ocean of women and whiskey, burying himself in a cocoon of alcohol and tangled bed sheets, drinking himself to sweet oblivion, entwined in the arms and legs of a beautiful woman. Or three.

He desperately needs to be numb to the world and everything in it.

"Jarvis?"  
"Sir?"

"Cancel my plans for the next week, clear my schedule. I don't care what excuses you have to make. And disable the comms.  _No one_  gets through; not SHIELD, no personal numbers, nothing. If anyone asks where I am, I'm anywhere but here."

"Sir." The AI is smart enough not to argue, and Tony has to laugh at that.

Tony's final thought is,  _I need another fucking drink_.

- _Two weeks later_ -

Steve slams open Tony's bedroom door to find the billionaire tied to the bed with his own trousers, being straddled by a very curvaceous redhead who is wearing, or – more accurately –  _not_  wearing, an item of clothing that Steve doesn't have the vocabulary to describe.

His mouth flaps open and closed, eyes rapidly blinking from Tony to the woman, before he decides he'd rather be looking at the ceiling instead. He clears his throat loudly and folds his arms over his chest.

"Tony? If it's not too, uh  _inconvenient_? I need to talk to you.  _Now_."

And  _there_  was the voice of Captain America, all stern commanding authority and words lined with steel. Tony's exasperated sigh was heard clearly across the room.

"Sweetheart, be a good girl and untie me would you? Tony needs to talk to the big angry soldier man."

The redhead smiles wickedly, and although Steve is fairly sure he sees her consider refusing, she does as she's told.

Hands free, Tony rubs at his wrists, and with a "Run along, I'm sure this won't take long," he shoos her away. She hops from the bed and glides past Steve, all bright eyes glinting with mischief and lithe, supple limbs. Steve swallows the lump in his throat, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he is unable to hide the blush bleeding into his cheeks, or disguise the noise of distress that escapes him as she brushes  _far_  too close.

Tony catches it, and laughs unkindly. "Don't start without me," he calls after her. She winks at him and slips through the door. Tony fixes Steve with a glare that the soldier can't see, because his virgin eyes are still glued to the ceiling lights, protecting his modesty.

Tony grabs the pants that were so recently securing his wrists to the bed posts and drags them up over his hips, lazily rolling the ache from his shoulders and scouring the room for his whiskey bottle. He's only half drunk right now, and that's a major improvement from an hour ago.

Steve suddenly makes a loud, angry noise and stalks out of the room.

Knowing he's  _probably_  got a stern talking-to coming on, the likes of which only Steve Rogers is truly capable of delivering, Tony groans inwardly. He is quite definitely  _not_  in the mood for this; he is far too much a sickly mixture of still-drunk and slipping slowly (but surely) into hung over to form anything  _like_  a coherent argument, and he decides that no, like hell is he putting up with Steve's soldier bullshit today. Not a chance.

…

It is glaringly obvious from the way he is standing with his arms folded over his suit that Steve Rogers is very, very angry. Tony slopes reluctantly into the living room behind him, and props himself up against the wall, unable to summon the will to care, whiskey glass firmly in hand. Steve looks pointedly at it, judgement clear in his eyes.

With carefully controlled emotion, Steve asks, "Tony, what  _exactly_  are you doing?"

Tony rolls his eyes, exasperated and angry. Why does he always have to explain himself to these people? Why can't they just leave him the fuck alone to drink himself stupid and wallow in misery?

"What the hell does it look like? Y'know, if this is about that woman? Then I have to tell you that who I sleep with is none of your God damn business."

That earns a snort. Great, disdain. Because God knows he hasn't experienced enough of  _that_.

"No, Tony, it isn't about that, although I would be lying if I said I wasn't," Steve clears his throat, " _concerned_?"

A different tone enters his voice, his eyes questioning, "Where the hell have you been, Tony? We haven't seen or heard from you in  _two weeks_. You didn't respond to the alert earlier, and thank God we didn't need Iron Man, because if we had? You would have been in no fit state to help anyone." His eyebrows knit together, "Look at you, Tony, are you drunk? It's 11am!"

Tony slams his glass down on the counter beside him, "Rogers, quite frankly? You can take your judgement, and just  _shove it up your ass_. I'm not hurting anyone but myself, okay? It's none of your fucking business, so stop trying to get involved. I am  _not_  going to explain myself to you."

Steve barks a laugh, "Oh, it's none of my business, huh? Tony, you  _make it_  my business when you put the team at risk with your  _stupidity_. You're an  _Avenger_ , and you need to start taking that responsibility one hell of a lot more seriously."

Tony throws his hands up, "What in the hell are you talking about, Rogers? I'm not putting anybody at risk. I'm actually  _trying_  to get on with drinking myself blind, and you come barging in here uninvited! In fact, Jarvis? Why _did_  you let the gleaming pillar of patriotism into my house if he was just going to yell at me?"

The AI doesn't deign to respond to that and Steve lets out a frustrated  _ugh_.

"Tony, I'm being serious,  _what are you doing_?" He waves towards the corridor, "And who was  _that_?"

Tony laughs cruelly, "What, Rogers, are you jealous?"

Steve stiffens at that, but Tony carries on regardless.

"Look,  _Steve_ , I  _know_  you missed a lot when you were having some down time out in your little freeze box in the snow? But this isn't the 40s. You missed the whole "free love" movement. Fondue was a big deal back then."

The clumsy jabs don't go unnoticed. Steve's fingers tighten round his arms, deep grooves appearing in the fabric, and there is tension in his jaw as his teeth grind together.

And still Tony continues. He just doesn't care, he is  _so far_  past caring. He is tired, the alcohol is wearing off, and he is getting progressively more and more irritated with the man standing in front of him, judging him.

"I sleep around. Alright? That is just something that I do. You cannot stop me from doing that, and I could not give less of a fuck what people think about it."

He gestures angrily at him with a hand, "And anyway, why do  _you_  care who I sleep with,  _Steve_? What the hell is it to you?"

Steve takes three quick steps and comes to a halt right in front of Tony's face, towering over him, a pillar of red, white and blue barely concealed rage.

"Tony, the drinking, the sleeping with random women, it has  _got_ to _stop_. Ignoring the problem is  _not_  going to solve anything, and  _you_   _know that_. I know what this is about," Tony snorts, "I know why you're doing this; you _can't fool me_  and you can't just avoid me and think that that will stop me from figuring it out.  _You_  pushed her away in the first place, Tony, your erratic behaviour and your endless bullshit, and do you really think that  _this_  is going to make it any better? How do you think this would make her feel if she knew?"

And that stops Tony cold. Because Steve is talking about Pepper.  _How does he know that?_

The soldier's eyes are full of contempt, and something Tony recognises all too easily as disappointment, but they are somehow tinged with sadness too. Steve shakes his head.

"You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself, Tony. Pepper was right."

The words knock the wind out of him like a fist in his gut. Then, without thinking, anger burning white-hot in his chest, Tony retorts acidly, "You're one to talk,  _Steve_. How do  _you_  deal with  _your_  problems, huh? Tell me that. I had to babysit you in the middle of the night while you were crying like a little girl. You're  _pathetic_."

Steve visibly recoils.

Tony sneers up at him, "Why do you care what I do, huh? What the fuck does it matter to anyone else what I do?"

And now Steve shouts into Tony's face, "Because we are a  _team_ , Tony, we all have to work  _together_! That is the  _entire point_   _of a_   _team_! If even  _one_  of us is out of sync, the team  _won't be effective_. Do you understand that concept? We have to work  _together_  to do the things we have to do. We're the _Avengers_ , we exist to "fight the battles no one else could", remember? We can't  _do that_  if you're constantly drunk, or off the grid, or sleeping around, or destroying your relationships with everyone around you!"

Steve is pacing, angrily stalking backwards and forwards in front of Tony. Tony's jaw is set, mouth a tight, hard line, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"You haven't checked in at HQ for  _two weeks_ , Tony, you've disconnected your comms… What if we needed you, huh? What if you were on another bender and we really needed you to come in? What use are you to us if you're not even fully  _conscious_  half the time?"

Steve puts himself right in front of Tony's face again, "When was the last time you went a day without a drink, huh? Tell me that, Tony,  _when_?"

Tony's eyes are hard, and squaring up to Steve, bodies close, he spits the words,

"You think you know me so well,  _Rogers_ , you think you've got me all figured out. Well, sorry to disappoint you but you don't know  _jack shit_  about  _me_ , or  _my_   _life_ , and you sure as hell don't get to lecture me just because you're a  _captain_. I  _will not_  take orders from you. I will do whatever the hell I want, for as long as I want to do it. And if you don't like that? Then you can just stay the fuck away from me."

Steve's eyes flicker, and -  _bizarrely_ , Tony thinks - a pleading note bleeds into his voice, "Tony, please, this  _has_  to  _stop_. You need to talk to Pepper, because you can't just keep-"

Tony abruptly shoves Steve away from him, eyes wild, "Oh, so suddenly I'm getting relationship advice from someone whose relationship has literally been ON ICE for the last 70 years?  _Give me a fucking break, Rogers-_ "

The bare second of silence that follows is broken by the sickening crack of Steve's fist meeting Tony's face.

Tony reels backwards into a table, sending papers and objects flying. Steve is livid, eyes black with rage.

"You're such a piece of work sometimes, Tony,  _my God_ ; you haven't got a  _shred_  of decency in you, do you?" He spits the words with utter disgust.

Hand clasped to the red welt rapidly swelling on his cheek, Tony screeches, "Oh,  _I'm sorry_ , why the fuck exactly are  _you_  angry?  _I'm_ the one that just got punched in the face!"

Steve's expression is cold and still as stone, contempt radiating from him in palpable waves. He stands before him, the patriot, the role model, the perfect solider, and suddenly, Tony sees red.

He lunges at him, locking his hands around Steve's soft throat. Steve immediately responds by kneeing Tony hard in the stomach, provoking a loud, rattling gasp from the smaller man as the wind is knocked from him.

They fight, throwing themselves into each other over and over again, punching, clawing, kicking, and grunting with the pain and the effort. There is a roar in Tony's ears, blood coursing hot in his veins. He is beyond self-control, and his rage crashes relentlessly through him in jagged red waves. He wants Steve to hurt like he hurts, and for a time hurt is all he knows. Blows rain down upon him, the incessant impact of fists and feet, and though pain blossoms all over his body, he doesn't stop. He can't. The rage burns in him like fire, but the drink makes him clumsy. It makes him slow.

Steve, lip broken and bloody, finally has his arms locked around Tony, trying to pin him down, but when Tony suddenly brings his fist hard up into Steve's ribs, Steve grunts in shock and releases him. He quickly regains his breath and launches himself into Tony. The force knocks him clear off his feet, and sends the two of them sailing into a bookcase. It collapses around them, obliterated.

Coughing, clutching at bruises and cuts as the dust settles over them, their rage slowly ebbs. The fight has gone out of them, and the two men lie prone in the debris, papers and books and wreckage strewn all around them.

In the rubble, bright colour catches Tony's eye.

A picture of him and Pepper.

His hand reaches for it, fingers grating against its jagged edges, and the broken glass leaves a smear of red across his palm and fingers. As he tries to pick it up, it collapses in his hand, spider web cracks running across the surface of the glass. Inside, an ache spasms violently. It isn't a physical ache, though he feels his body shudder with those too, but Tony suddenly feels raw, cracked open, his weakness left to bleed out into the world for all to see.

And a small voice betrays him, to whisper,  _why do you break everything you touch?_

Steve hacks a cough through the dust, croaking "Tony…?"

"Get out", Tony says quietly, and there is steel under his words, soft as they are.

Steve pushes debris from his legs, crawling over the ruins of the bookcase towards him. His bloody mouth opens as an apology tries to force its way out, "Tony, I..."

"Just don't, Steve." Tony rasps, breath coming in ragged snatches, " Just, get out."

The look Tony gives him is cold enough to send a shiver of ice jolting down his spine.

Fear settles deep in the pit of Steve's stomach as he looks into Tony's eyes. Something constricts in his throat, and again in his chest, cold fingers wrapping round his heart and squeezing. He has gone too far. Steve feels the panic rise, but he cannot break Tony's gaze.

"Leave," Tony whispers, and it sounds as if it was choked from him.

Steve clambers from the rubble, and leaves without saying a word.


	8. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more Steve POV, and someone FINALLY makes a move! dun dun dunnnn!

"If you two don't kiss and make up, and  _fast_ , then so help me I will smash your God damn heads together and throw your asses off this ship out into the sky, 30,000 feet or not."

Fury turns to face them, voice hard, "You  _will_ fix this, Captain, Mr Stark. I mean it. I will  _not_   _tolerate_  conflict between teammates aboard my ship. You have a job to do, so get out there and do it."

The director stalks out, long coat flapping behind him, and the door hisses shut, leaving the two men alone in the room.

Separated by the long table between them, they avoid each other's gaze. Steve's jaw is set, but there is no real anger in his posture. Tony, however, is visibly seething. He grips his helmet a little too tightly, metal suit glinting under the bright lights.

"Tony…" Steve starts.

Tony holds his hand up, clearly signalling him to just, stop.

"Don't, Rogers."

Steve winces at Tony's use of his surname. A vein jumps in Tony's temple, just below the skin, and Steve notices the dark smudges under his eyes, though Tony does not turn to meet his gaze. Frankly, Tony looks like death warmed up, and Steve wonders if he's been sleeping at all, because it sure as hell doesn't look like it. And he knows he may be partly responsible for that.

Tony has been blocking his calls since the fight, every method of communication actually. Steve thinks dryly that even if he'd sent a carrier pigeon with a note tied to its leg, Tony would sooner have shot it and had Jarvis cook it for dinner than read the message of apology it carried. Tony has shut himself down, and he won't let Steve get through to him, though not for one second has that stopped him trying.

Steve was half way back to New York when he had to stop himself turning the bike around and going back to try and pick up the pieces of the mess he'd created. But he knows Tony, knew that he would be nursing his wounds like a kicked dog, and that the very  _last_  thing he'd want to do is talk about it.

So he holds his tongue.

There is silence for a moment, before Tony, voice low and carefully measured, but dangerously, curiously, brittle, begins to speak.

"I am sick, and  _tired_ , of being treated like a child.  _I_  financed most of this fucking organisation.  _I_  built the weaponry.  _My_  technology is what keeps this fucking heap in the air; I will  _not_  be spoken to like that. And  _if_   _you_ _think_  that I will just blindly follow your orders then you better think again, because I will  _not_  jump through hoops like some fucking  _circus animal_."

"Tony," Steve sighs, "this has nothing to do with –"

And Tony slams his hands down against the table, metal screeching against metal. He rounds on Steve, eyes like chips of flint, and there is more anger in their depths than Steve has ever seen.

His words spill out in a violent hiss that cuts a blistering path to Steve's ears, and he stalks through the room towards him.

"This is  _not_ just about Fury, Rogers,  _you_  are  _not_  pulling this leader bullshit on me today. Not after what happened last week." He takes three steps to put himself an inch in front of Steve's face, and jabs an armoured finger into his chest.

"You think you can waltz into  _my_   _house_  and order me around like you're my fucking  _father_ or something? Well, I hate to disappoint you, Rogers, but I don't take orders from  _anyone_ , I don't give a fuck how old you are. _Not_   _Fury_ , and  _not you_.  _Nobody_."

Then Steve grabs him, fingers digging into the grooves of his chest plate, and actually shakes him, metal suit and all. Tony's body rattles inside, bones jarring.

"This is not  _about that_ , Stark, this is  _not_  about  _you_! We have a  _mission_ , to  _protect people_ , and I am  _not_ going to let you and your selfish, reckless behaviour stop us from doing what we were brought together to do! You are a member of this team, and you  _will_  act like one. You will  _put your issues aside_ ," he shouts, tone clipped, and his voice is hard as steel, and just as cold.

"This is a Level 7, Stark. I am pulling rank. And if you  _don't_  do what I tell you to do? I will call you up in front of the powers that be for insubordination, soldier or not."

Tony sees the resignation in Steve's eyes; soldier's eyes, clear and full of conviction.

The rage bubbles up hot and violent in his chest and he wrenches himself free of Steve's grip.

"Go to hell, Rogers," he spits, chest heaving beneath his armour.

Wordlessly, Steve takes his shield from the table, and turns to leave. He pauses at the door, then, with dark eyes, he says over his shoulder, "You have your orders, Stark. I suggest you follow them."

He leaves Tony there, sirens wailing all around him, ears ringing and deafened by the noise and his own seething anger surging through his veins. He snatches up his helmet, and as it clicks into place, he wonders just how many times he's going to have to watch Steve Rogers turn his fucking back on him and walk away.

…

If there  _is_  a hell, Tony is pretty sure he knows what it looks like after today.

They've been fighting for hours. The city is crawling with gleaming humanoid robots; black, metallic, mindless killing machines that continue to execute their primary command regardless of which parts of their bodies are shot to pieces. A single dismembered hand is making short work of Tony's already-mangled left leg, metal shrieking against metal, wires sparking and shorting as they are ripped out. The plating on his right arm is little more than tattered shrapnel, and Tony's chest plate has caved in on the left hand side, a huge skeletal hand print crushed into the metal. Tony notes distantly that he is definitely dealing with broken ribs because of it, and more likely than not, internal bleeding to boot. The telling rattle in his lungs as he breathes testifies as much.

The repulsor beams in his suit are all but dead, his comms just white noise and static in his ears, no sign of Jarvis. His HUD flashes on and off again, barely functional. The Mark VII resembles something closer to scrap metal than the gleaming red and gold armour of a few hours before. Tony's weapons arsenal is empty. He's used it all; every bullet, rocket, shell. His systems are shot.

Now, he is clawing at the face of the robot attempting to crush his throat with one hand, desperately trying to escape its grip. He feels its fingers tighten round his neck, and metal pops and buckles, grinding closer and closer to his skin. The robot's other hand comes crashing down against his skull, and for a moment Tony sees stars in the flickering darkness of his helmet.

Then he sees nothing but red.

The impact still ringing in his ears, a shield comes spinning from nowhere, severing the robot's arm and sending it careening into the air, dropping Tony heavily to the ground. His legs threaten to crumple beneath him, last vestiges of desperate strength long gone. As the adrenaline racing through his body wanes and fades, the aftermath is a sudden numbness, then, almost instantaneously, a blinding pain blossoming in more places than Tony can count. His breath hisses through his teeth as the agony wracks him.

The robot before him raises his remaining arm for what Tony dully assumes will be the final blow. He feels himself spreads his arms wide to accept it, chest exposed.

In a flash of red and blue, Steve descends on Tony's assailant, hacking limbs and pulling wires, decimating it, with no method to his madness but the pure, blinding need to destroy the thing threatening his teammate's life. _Tony's life._

In one heavy blow, he crushes the hand still clutching Tony's leg with his heel, and spins to bury his fist in the exposed tangle of wires that once served as the face of a second robot advancing towards him. Blood up, Steve decapitates another, whirling in controlled frenzy, injuring and incapacitating enemy after enemy, driving them back from where Tony stands, swaying unsteadily, eyes unseeing.

Tony's legs buckle, and he drops to his knees, unable to summon the strength to stand up again. Bright blue dances in a blur in front of him, and he tips forward, head swimming.

He falls, and the ground rushes up to meet him.

Hot blood is dripping down his forehead, running into his eyes, and he can't open the helmet to wipe it away. He is vaguely aware that something inside is broken; cracked, splintered, and digging further into the side of his head. The HUD flickers once more, and goes dark.

Wave upon wave of relentless pain threatens to drown him, his breathing echoing ragged and harsh in his ears in the quiet space of his helmet. For a time, the sounds of battle are a muffled cacophony around him, but the din fades to silence as Tony begins to slip in and out of consciousness.

What feels like years later, someone hauls Tony from the burning wreckage, shouting, pulling him through the rubble and mangled robot carcasses that litter the ground. Tony is barely awake, but suddenly he hears Steve's voice, clear and strong, close to his ear.

"Tony, Tony,  _hang in there_! The chopper's nearly here,  _don't_  close your eyes. Stay with me, Tony,  _don't you dare close your eyes_!"

They flicker open, shut, and open again, but barely.

"Cap… don't mean to scare you… but, there's kind of… a  _lot_  of… blood," Tony grunts through the splintered helmet, "Not sure if I can… hang on 'til the chopper… gets…"

He hacks, lungs afire, feeling blood spill over his tongue and lips, and he knows his throat is awash with it.

"Tony, _stop talking_. Just try to breathe normally, okay? We'll get your suit off in the chopper." Steve's words come out in a rush, and through the furore all around them, they reach Tony's ears as little more than a clumsy slur.

But he hears them.

"S'probably all that's… keeping me together... Cap... it's a real,  _ugh_ … mess… in here" Tony's half-hearted attempt at a laugh is cut short as another cough wracks him, pain searing violently through his entire body. More blood bubbles up in his throat.

" _Tony_ ,  _stop_ ," Steve orders, or perhaps, pleads, "You're gonna be okay,  _I promise_ ,  _just hold on_."

By now, Tony is too weak to argue. He is too weak to even nod. His eyes drift shut, and Steve's voice melts away into a distant murmur in his ears.

Through an ocean of roaring blood, his heartbeat stuttering erratic behind it, Tony barely hears the hum of a chopper engine.

…

He swims in and out of consciousness, tasting metal.

Tony vaguely registers that they've extricated him from his suit when pain knifes through his body as the chopper vibrates too violently beneath him. The oxygen mask strapped over his mouth itches, the band too tight around his head. Each time he manages to prise open his eyes, he sees Steve's pale, stricken face.

Steve's voice tries to scratch its way through the static buzzing in his ears, but Tony can't hear a thing through the din of the engines.

He pulls the mask down, and manages to drape a hand over Steve's, dragging tubes, and – he notices, not a small trail of blood.

Fighting unconsciousness, he rasps, "Cap?"

He feels him clutch his hand and grip it tightly, almost desperately, and the captain's eyes are wide with fear.

Tony feels sickening dizziness envelop him.  _How much blood has he lost?_

His breath hisses and rattles in his chest, "Not… entirely sure… but,  _agh_ ," he sucks in a breath through gritted teeth as the effort of speaking sends pain spiking up through his chest, "might have to… leave you… on… on this one…"

And suddenly his body is so  _heavy_ , his movements so  _slow_ , as if his limbs were caught in treacle.

Panic flashes across Steve's face, and it takes him a moment to choke something back, before he steels himself.

His voice shakes, despite his efforts to conceal what must be fear, but then, in that familiar commanding tone, Tony hears Steve say,

"Not on my watch, soldier, we'll get you home."

Another choking rattle brings up a fresh wave of blood, and as the pain constricts and spasms in his chest, Tony can feel that terrifying darkness clawing at the edges of his consciousness, stronger now, insistent. It pulls at him, slows his mind, dims his vision, steals his speech, a creeping atrophy that will leave him blind, deaf, and dumb, whether he lets it or not.

But he won't let it, not yet. Because if he's going to clock out for real this time, he has something he needs to say before he goes.

"I'm… sorry, Steve…" he rasps, "for… what I…"

But the captain just shakes his head, dabbing at Tony's bloody lips as he tries to speak, "Shhh, Tony, stop, stop talking. You have to save your strength. Just try to stay with me, okay? Stay with me."

Tony nods, but the effort of speaking, of thinking, is too much, and he feels himself slipping. Before his heavy eyelids slide blissfully shut once more, he feels a hand on his forehead. Steve's hand, he thinks faintly, and it comforts him somehow.

Steve looks him dead in the eye, and though his vision swims and blurs, Tony sluggishly recognises fear and panic there, true panic, though he hasn't the energy to respond. Steve wipes the blood still oozing from Tony's forehead and his voice finally breaks as he chokes out the words,

"I'll get you home, Tony, I promise you.  _I will get you home_."

…

The machines surrounding Tony beep, click and whir, with monotonous rhythm. In the otherwise clinical silence of the white room, the sounds are deafening.

He sleeps, and Steve Rogers stands watch by his bedside.

Tony's skin is pale as death, veins pushing close to the surface, bright blue and red standing in stark contrast against the sea of ghostly white around them. His body is criss-crossed with bandages, and there are tubes in his arms, wires attached to his chest, stitches digging into his flesh. His injuries are hideous.

Steve has never seen Tony so badly hurt.

But, despite the sickly pale pallor of his skin, the bruises dappled across his limbs and torso alike, Tony's expression is smooth, untroubled. The drugs coursing through him keep him under, holding the worst of the pain at bay as his body heals itself. Steve can't tear his eyes away from the man lying terrifyingly still beside him, and he refuses the medical team's attempts to move him.

After two days, Tony develops a raging fever. His skin grows yet paler, if that is even possible, becoming almost translucent, and the fever burns beneath it.

Delirium seizes him from time to time, and Steve holds him down as it passes. Tony screams in the night. He shakes and writhes and his face shines with sweat as the nightmares crawl beneath his skin.

Steve can only mop his brow with cool water and wait.

To say the injuries Tony sustained were severe is an understatement, and though Steve is eschewed from the room when the bandages must be changed, he catches glimpses of Tony's ravaged body through gaps in the curtains, like slivers of a bloody nightmare. Mottled with bruises, his body is more purple, green and yellow than flesh coloured, and thick black stitches form a crude lattice in his skin, knitting him together.

Steve is no doctor, but he knows that Tony's injuries are taking far too long to heal, result of his body turning its attention to the fever in precedence over the wounds. Through snatches of conversation between medical staff who thought him otherwise occupied, Steve has heard murmured that it's entirely possible Tony that may never regain consciousness, if the fever truly takes him and he can't shake it. The drugs surging through Tony's veins keep him sedated, the tubes give him nutrients and fluids, but still his body burns as it tries to fight.

Something twists sharply in Steve's chest as the thought of Tony not pulling through crosses his mind.

Each night, Tony's hand held tight in his own, he whispers a fervent prayer to the God above that Tony will wake up soon.

He remains by his side as the days tick by, and he will not be moved. He will not leave until he sees Tony's eyes open properly, and recognise him at last.

…

The hour is late, and Steve is occupying his usual post at Tony's bedside. He dozes, teetering at the edge of sleep, starting from time to time as Tony's heart rate monitor blips in the background.

For the last hour or so, Tony has been wrapped in a fever dream, muttering nonsense under his breath, when suddenly, there is silence. Steve snaps out of shallow sleep to find Tony staring at him. His eyes are dazed and unfocussed, but they are open. Steve's heart leaps in his chest.

"Tony? Oh my God, Tony, are you with me?"

Tony blinks agonisingly slowly, as if his eyelids were heavy as lead. Garbled noise escapes his lips, then he slurs "Steve?", tongue thick and lazy from lack of use. He blinks again, more quickly this time, trying to coat his dry eyes with a layer of moisture.

He mumbles something incoherent and gropes at the tubes and wires attached to his body, eyes confused. Steve shushes him, catching his fumbling hands before he rips out something important.

He reaches for a damp cloth, and presses cool fingers to Tony's brow, the compress a shock against his burning skin.

Tony tries to speak, but his mouth is clumsy. The effort it takes sees his skin bead with sweat, and Steve runs the cloth across his forehead, gently shushing him.

Tony hums at the beads of cool water running over his cheeks and his eyes slide shut.

He licks his cracked lips, a hum rumbling low in his throat.

"…feels good, Steve…"

At that, a flush steals along Steve's own skin, though he knows it shouldn't. He hears his heartbeat quicken in his ears, and swallows past the lump in his throat. Unable to find words to answer, he just nods, right hand pressing the cloth to Tony's skin again, over the ugly black stitches across his temple.

With his eyes half-lidded, Tony hums as Steve brushes his skin with the cool, damp cloth. His lips are red and full in a way Steve hasn't been able to shake thinking about, and his other hand ghosts across Tony's cheek, coming to rest curled against the side of his face.

And Tony's hand grasps at Steve's, fingers lacing through his. His eyes open a might, and brown, brown eyes meet blue.

Tony's breath comes in short, brief snatches, the fever still raging relentlessly through him. He blinks up at Steve slowly, dazedly, and with a smile, he manages to rasp, " _Thanks_."

And through the haze of fever burning there, Tony's eyes shine with something Steve can't fathom. They pull him in, and the feeling is warm, intoxicating. Something calm and sure burns in their depths, and Steve finds he can't resist the magnetism of those deep, brown pools. It feels a lot like falling.

Pulse suddenly racing, Steve fumbles clumsily with the cloth.

And he catches himself leaning closer and closer, finds himself hovering just inches from Tony's face, their fingers still entwined.

"You're… you're welcome, Tony," Steve says, softly, voice barely a whisper, and he can feel Tony's breath on his cheek, light, gentle, a tickling heat rippling across his skin.

Tony's eyes flicker from Steve's eyes to his mouth, and he wets his own dry lips with his tongue unconsciously.

" _Steve_ ," he murmurs, breath soft.

Tony turns his head ever so slightly, and his mouth brushes against Steve's cheek. His touch trails fire along Steve's skin, lips burning with feverish heat.

As their noses touch, their breath mingles on their lips. Eyes sliding shut, Tony gently, slowly, presses his mouth to Steve's, soft, undemanding, the lightest of pressures.

For the scantest second, Steve cannot react. The shock of Tony's lips set hot against his own crashes through him like a tidal wave. His heart leaps in his chest, and his skin is suddenly as much aflame as Tony's own fevered body beneath him. Then, as Tony reaches up to tangle a hand in his hair, Steve lets himself press deeper into the kiss. When he feels Tony push back, reciprocating, hand a gentle pressure pulling him closer, caution disappears, and he feels his doubt dissolve.

Then Tony hums against his lips, and a sudden shiver careens down his spine, sparks shuddering through his skin. Something warm unfurls in his chest as the questing lips beneath his own urge him on, unyielding, unspoken demand traced in their motion.

Steve's hand on Tony's forehead relaxes, and he drops the wet cloth.

Tony breaks the kiss abruptly, growling low in his throat as the cool pressure of the cloth leaves his skin, and he lurches heavily back into the pillow as another sudden wave of pain and nausea returns without warning to swallow him. His hands clutch at the sheets and his body spasms as heat and cold screech through it. Steve snaps back to hold Tony down with one shaking hand.

Tony writhes, choking out something incoherent, and when his eyes roll back, Steve hits a button, administering a huge dose of sedative into Tony's bloodstream. The tubes pulse with fluid, and Tony groans briefly in relief, before collapsing into unconsciousness.

Steve slumps back into his chair, dazed, fingers ghosting across his lips, still stinging with the heat of Tony on them. He watches until Tony's breathing has eased, and he can see his heart rate stabilising on the monitors, before he lets himself relax.

Mind still reeling, his own heart thuds rapidly in his chest, and Steve knows he'll get no sleep tonight.

…

Hours pass. Then days.

Steve keeps his watch at Tony's side, but never dares bring himself so close to Tony again. His hand, however, remains in constant contact with Tony's own, fingers linking and unlinking, skin on skin, brushing together.

On the sixth day in the bright white room, Tony's fever finally breaks, and his eyes flicker open, clear at last.

Steve's breath escapes him in a choked rush, a deep exhalation of relief, and he makes no effort to hide the tears in his eyes.

" _Tony_ …"

Hand held tight in his own, he feels Tony's fingers squeeze back. His brown eyes are bright, and he smiles a lazy, drowsy smile, as he murmurs,

"Hey, baby blue".


	9. Anamnesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anamnesis: the recollection or remembrance of the past.

Voices swim in his ears. He vaguely recognises them; Clint, Bruce, Thor, even Natasha, but more often than all of them, Steve.

His mouth is too clumsy to form sentences, his eyes too heavy to open just yet. He lets himself slip in and out of sleep, an ache going deep in his bones. His leg itches hotly under whatever hard substance encases it, but he hasn't the energy in him to try and scratch at it. After a time, relief comes as sleep claims him again, and the burning fades. He is aware that there is something tight around his chest, something else pulling uncomfortably at the skin above his eye, and he feels tiny spots of pressure sucking at the skin of his torso. All these sensations surface and are swallowed, time and time again, like sharp rocks under the waves of a relentless sea, as he drifts somewhere between sleeping and waking.

He dreams, of nothing in particular. He dreams of soft laughter, of music; of gentle touch and cool air. He dreams of red, and white, and blue.

He dreams of stars.

…

"Tony…"

Something whispers to him.

The sound creeps under the soft, dark blanket that cocoons him, invasive, and images shift and change behind his eyes, tendrils of thought that slip through the blackness.

" _Tony_ …"

A clock ticks.

The sound echoes thickly through his head, over and over, irritating him to the point of waking, pulling him rudely into consciousness. As he opens his eyes, he dimly hears a voice, but it swims in his head and darts away before he can snatch it, before he can make it tell him who it belongs to.

Tony feels himself blinking, looking up, and suddenly bright fluorescent lights above him burn his eyes. He growls at them, and squeezes his eyelids open and shut again as he adjusts to the harsh glare.

Looking about him, he slowly, weakly, recognises the recovery room.

A burning sensation awakes violently in his throat, and looking down at himself, he vaguely notes the disgusting yellow hue of his skin, here and there patches of darker green, even purple.  _I look like hell_ , he thinks groggily, and he hasn't even seen his face yet. He isn't all that sure he wants to either, for that matter. He feels something tight and alien in his forehead, and his fingers snap up to his head to run over the roughness of thick stitches in his temple, crudely knitting it together, and though the sharp movement sends pain skittering across his body, it fades fairly quickly to a mild, dull ache.

As his hand explores the cuts and scabs on his face and torso, it slowly dawns on Tony that he isn't wearing a t-shirt. Clutching the wires stuck to various parts of his body ( _and that explains the bizarre sucking feeling_ ) he thinks thickly that,  _oh well, yeah, these_ _probably_ would _have made clothing pretty impractical, but… hey, wait_...

Upon registering that he is seeing his own naked skin stretched out in a pale expanse in front of him, Tony abruptly realises that he has been stripped to the waist, and that his arc reactor is on brazen display to all and sundry that would care to glance his way. He thinks, with vague irritation, that it more than likely has been ever since he was brought here. If he wasn't so pumped full of sedatives, Tony would probably feel very angry about this blatant invasion of privacy, and ashamedly attempt to cover up the device in his chest. Given, however, that he  _is_  still both faintly delirious  _and_  partially sedated, he finds himself wholly unconcerned.  _And ain't that a first_.

He tilts his head to the left and nearly jumps out of his skin, as he abruptly comes face to face with the man sitting beside him.

Steve blinks down at him, and then, realising Tony is awake and finally  _lucid_ , his mouth slowly spreads into that lopsided smile that Tony loves so much, and the way Steve says his name makes his stomach do an odd little flip. He feels his own mouth curl up to smile in response, something warm unfurling in his chest, but although he can see happiness in Steve's eyes, Tony also notices dark circles in the hollows under the piercing blue. He reaches up to touch the purple smudges, hand trailing ugly tubes in its wake, and Steve actually  _sighs_  at that brief contact.

"You been sleeping okay, Rogers? You look like shit."

Tony croaks his first conscious words in days, and discovers with a sharp rush of pain that his voice's mere attempt to scratch its way out into the world makes his throat burn with a blinding intensity. Tony hisses at the pain. "Water," he rasps, hand outstretched and grasping for a glass.

Steve hands it to him wordlessly, that familiar crease of worry appearing between his eyebrows. As he releases his grip, Tony's fingers are suddenly too weak to keep hold of the glass. It falls from his hand and water spills across his legs and up his stomach, the cold sending a jolt through his body.

He curses loudly and immediately regrets it, as his raw throat screams in protest.

Steve jumps into action, rescuing the glass and ripping away the sodden blanket, discarding it roughly, suddenly skittish.

"One second, Tony, let me get you another blanket, hold on, just, just one second…"

He disappears from the room in a flash, leaving Tony to lean heavily back into the stack of pillows behind his head, breath rasping in his throat, suddenly ablaze with pain.

And it occurs to him, _how long exactly have I been out?_

He tries to recall his last clear memory, and almost instantly fragments of battle, of pain and blood and thunderous noise, come crashing violently to the front of his mind. Even in the confines of his own head it's too loud, so he shuts it out with a hiss, and tries to think of something else.

Steve reappears in the doorway as abruptly as he left and Tony sucks in a breath of surprise, wincing as a brief shard of pain rockets up his side.

" _Jesus_ , what're you trying to  _do_ , Rogers, give me a God damn heart attack?" He croaks out, voice so hoarse it is little more than a rasping hiss.

He pants with the effort of speaking, throat still burning, "I only just woke up for Christ's sake, give me a minute to compose myself, would you, and  _agh_ ,  _God_ , do me a favour and stop  _fidgeting_ , you're aggravating my cast…"

He's only just noticed the thick white plaster his leg is ensconced in.  _So_ that's _what the weird heat and pressure and, good_ God _, the_ insufferable itching  _was all about_. _Great_ , he thinks agitatedly,  _I won't be fully mobile for_ weeks _with this fucking cumbersome thing on_.

He hears Steve mumble what is probably an apology, and lets him lay the blanket down over his legs.

Tony grimaces as he tries to pull himself into sitting position to accept the glass Steve is now pressing into his hands, and his grip is steadier than before as he remembers what it is to be conscious and capable of movement; well, sort of capable, at least.

Glass firmly, safely (ish), in Tony's hands, Steve takes the seat by his bedside again and his hands immediately occupy themselves with wringing themselves together. The captain's eyes betray a bizarre amalgamation of fear, relief, and something Tony distantly assumes is sleep deprivation. The latter tugs knowingly at the corners of Steve's eyes, dark smudges beneath them telling. Stubborn lines of worry adorn his brow, and Tony suddenly wonders,  _just_   _how long has Steve been sat in that spot_?

"How long was I out?" He rasps.

Fingers still fidgeting against each other, Steve says, quietly, "Almost a week and a half."

Tony sips the water, feeling it soothe his ravaged throat, "And how bad was it?"

"God, where to start?" Steve tries to laugh, and his mouth twitches in a pale imitation of a smile as he answers, "Obviously that's broken," motioning to the cast on Tony's leg.

"You have a whole bunch of cracked ribs under those bandages too, plus the left side of your head was a mess, hence the stitches. The medical team were called in as soon as I," he pauses, correcting himself, "...as soon as  _we_  got you back, and they, uh, well, they put you back together again. Did a damn good job too, considering the state you were in..."  
The weak attempt at a smile fades. His fingers lace and unlace in his lap, and he avoids Tony's eyes.

"But then, uh, you developed a fever, couple of days in, and it was, uh…" he trails off, quietly.

"It was bad."

His mouth closes, and he stays silent for a moment, until Tony, softly, says his name. Then the captain seems to give himself a little shake, like he's trying to compose himself, before he continues,

"You'd just lost so much blood… and we didn't know if you were gonna, hell,  _I_  didn't … You… you were so close to not coming back and I-"

And he looks up at Tony suddenly, with such dizzied relief in his eyes that the sheer intensity of the emotion caught in those bright blue spheres makes Tony's breath stop in his throat.

And softly, he says, "You nearly died, Tony."

The captain goes quiet again, turns his head, and coughs. It's a strange, strangled noise, and to Tony it sounds, however bizarrely, more like Steve is choking back tears than clearing his throat.

 _So it_ was _serious then._

Tony doesn't know how to respond, so he keeps his eyes on the glass in his hand, and says nothing.

He nurses his water, contemplating the fact that he'd apparently faced  _yet_   _another_  brush with death, and that it was Steve who had somehow pulled him back from the brink. His heart is doing strange somersaults in his chest and his throat is suddenly dry in a way altogether unrelated to the physical damage it has sustained. Vaguely distracted by the itching in his skin, he tries to imagine the reaction his return to headquarters in such a hideous state had caused.  _I must've bled all over that carpet Fury likes so much_ , he thinks distantly, and the thought is almost enough to make him smirk.

The captain sits still as stone at his side, and says nothing.

Seconds tick by, and the silence starts to unnerve him. Tony shifts under the blankets, accidentally agitating his wounds, and he winces as a sharp pain spikes in response to the movement.

Steve's head abruptly snaps up, startling him. His eyes burn bright with something almost manic, and Tony coughs to clear his aching throat, unable to break the intensity of Steve's gaze, and suddenly he is inexplicably nervous.

Steve's mouth opens and closes, then opens again.

"Tony, do… do you, uh," the captain fidgets in his seat, "do you, remember?"

Confused, Tony rasps, "Remember what?" and he feels his heart begin to beat erratically in his chest, as if somehow his body remembers, but his mind cannot.

Trying for nonchalant, despite the bizarre pounding of his heart, he asks, "Having seven shades of shit beaten out of me? Uh, unsurprisingly? _T_ _hat_  part is pretty vividly burned into my memory." He takes a long swallow of water, before muttering under his breath, " _So fucking humiliating_ …"

Steve's eyes flicker back to floor, and stay there, glued to the white tiles underfoot.

"Is that it?" he asks, quietly.

Tony raises an eyebrow, "Uh, yeah? Why, is there more? Besides me getting my ass kicked halfway to hell and back, and then waking up in this sorry state? Because frankly, I am a _mess_."

Steve's mouth twitches. "You could say that."

"So tell me," Tony shrugs.

But the captain doesn't speak for a moment, and Tony finishes his water. Steve keeps opening his mouth and then closing it again. Until, finally, Tony asks, "That bad, huh?"

Steve doesn't respond. Then, voice barely above a whisper, Tony hears Steve say, "Tony, we-" before he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath.

The captain doesn't meet his eyes, sat stock still in his chair, when he says softly,

"We kissed, Tony."

And Tony freezes.

It takes him what feels like years before he manages to croak out, "We _what_?"

The corners of Steve's mouth twitch.

And then Tony screeches out, " _You kissed me_?"

He doesn't see Steve mouth "no", as his mind races to try to come to terms with what he's just heard, and he feels his own mouth open, words come pouring out. He'll be damned if he knows why but his first instinct is to immediately get defensive.

"Steve, I was practically  _unconscious!_  You realise you essentially assaulted me in my sleep? ! I'm not Sleeping Beauty, for Christ's sake! True Love's kiss wasn't gonna wake me up! Jesus, I have been lying here practically-comatose, in a  _semi-vegetative_  state, for the past week and, oh my God,  _are you some kind of sexual deviant or something_? !"

And Steve is protesting wildly, anger, disbelief, and frustration plain as day on his face and in his eyes, "Tony you were  _not unconscious_ , what kind of person do you…  _do you really think I would_ … and  _besides_ …!"

Tony's words continue to spill out over Steve's in a cracked, garbled rush as he tries to make sense of the inexplicable embarrassment he is feeling; the shame and, dear God,  _admission_ , he hears creeping into his voice.  
He hasn't admitted his feelings for Steve to  _anyone_ , hasn't even really admitted them to  _himself_ yet, though he knows full well that they have been putting down roots inside him for weeks, perhaps even months, growing deeper and stronger every day.

And when Steve had suddenly disappeared on him...

Tony remembers that God awful fight… When they last parted, it had  _not_  been on good terms, and that thought twists in Tony's gut as he remembers the look of pain on Steve's face, and the things he said to him in the haze of drink and blinding anger…

And now? He wakes up in recovery to have the captain tell him that oh, sure, he nearly died, and yeah, he's been delirious with fever for days, and just as aside, that  _they had_   _kissed_?  
Tony's head spins with questions, and most compelling of all, he had to know, had Steve wanted it? Had Steve  _started_  it?

 _What does it even_   _mean?_

All of this races through Tony's mind in a matter of seconds. His heart is hammering so hard and so fast in his chest that he cannot understand how it doesn't burst from his ribcage, and he is still rambling when Steve abruptly shakes himself free of the back-and-forth and shouts, " _TONY, ENOUGH_."

Tony snaps his mouth shut, shocked into silence by the tone in the captain's voice.

Steve's blue eyes bore into him, as he says, ever so quietly,

" _You_ kissed  _me_ , Tony."

There is nothing but stunned silence between them as the words sink in, and Tony cannot process them, cannot understand them. His tongue feels too big in his mouth and his voice comes out clumsy, sounding strange in his ears.

"I'm sorry,  _I did_   _ **what**_?"

And Steve's face abruptly sets into a solid, unreadable mask.

"Forget it, Tony, just," he sighs, pressing his fingers to his eyes in a gesture of defeat, "Please, just, forget I said anything."

He gets up and walks away, and Tony flounders, mouth numb, unable to find the words to stop him.

…

Mind still reeling with shock, Tony eventually manages to convince a member of the medical staff to track down and bring him a certain Dr Banner. A sizeable amount of humiliating pleading and bargaining later, and the assurance that  _yes, he is feeling much,_ much _better now, thank you for your concern,_ he succeeds in coaxing Bruce into giving him a tablet from the lab and leaving it with him, despite the scientist's protests that however "fine" he feels, Tony needs to rest, not play with his toys.

Tony waves him and his concerns out of the room with a  _thank-you Bruce_ , and waits for him to round the corner and disappear from sight.

As soon as Tony is sure the scientist is gone, glancing suspiciously back over his shoulder, he activates the device and gets straight down to business, fingers sliding swiftly across the surface.

This single tablet is enough.

"Jarvis, would you mind hacking into the medical team's secure server? I want the cam feeds for the last 10 days," he murmurs, deft fingers entering the commands, "I think I need to see that security footage."

"Very good, Sir," the AI responds from the device in his hands, and the process hums into life, lines of coding racing across the screen in a stream of white and green.

An hour later, Tony is sat, mouth agape, utterly astounded at what he is seeing on the screen in his hands. In glorious Technicolor on the video window open in front of him, the camera feed plays.

He sees them carry him in, blood oozing from a myriad of cracks in the mangled suit. He sees them carefully prise away the metal to uncover the nightmare of broken bones and torn flesh inside. There are flashes of red and blue darting around the edges of the bed and rough hands pushing them back, away from Tony's body, as a swarm of doctors knit him back together with thick black thread, like stitches on a rag doll.

The clock on the feed ticks over to the next day.

He sees the medical staff unwrap his dressings, revealing the ravaged, mottled body beneath, festooned with seeping wounds and raging with fever. He sees himself screaming, writhing in pain and madness, and there are those hands again on his chest, holding him down against the bed until it passes.

The clock ticks over again.

He sees the colour of his skin bleed from deep purple, to green, to sickly yellow. He sees the changing of bandages, of tubes, of wires and plugs. He sees them apply the cast.

And he realises, as the seconds, minutes, and hours tick by on the clock, that the flashes of red and blue, the hands holding him steady through delirious nightmares, are Steve's. Day in, day out, he waits, never leaving Tony's side for long. Day and night the captain watches over him, mops his brow, and tends the minor wounds, talking softly all the while, meaningless soothing nothings that fall on ears deaf with delirium, with nonsense and nightmares raging under burning skin.

The clock ticks over into Day 5, and as he watches, Tony can't believe his eyes.

He sees himself wake from fitful sleep, Steve's hand gently pressing a cloth to his head.

He sees his hand curl around the captain's, the look in his eyes, then, heart in his throat, he sees his lips press softly to Steve's.

And he sees Steve kiss him back.

As he watches himself collapse back into sedated oblivion when the fever swallows him once again, he sees Steve's hand flicker to his lips, and Tony exhales in disbelief.

" _Well I'll be fucking damned_ …"

…

The captain sits alone in the kitchen, grateful for the silence. Nursing a coffee, his eyes are tired, haggard from lack of sleep. His head has been too full of questions to let him snatch any real rest.

He lets himself slide down against the tabletop until his forehead is pressed against the cold metal and he sighs loudly to himself, the " _ugh_ "echoing around the empty room.

 _Why_  did he tell Tony about the kiss? Damn it, the guy got beat  _half to death_  and hasn't even recovered enough to  _speak_  properly yet, let alone cope with a bombshell like  _that_!

He bangs his head against the table, muttering " _Stupid_ , Steve, stupid, stupid,  _stupid_ ," ever louder, and that's when Thor enters the room, no doubt searching for more Poptarts to consume. He really had developed a fondness for the things.

He watches Steve - who, as yet unaware of the god's presence in the room, continues to bang his head on the table - with a confused expression, as he opens cupboards and drawers in his search for the delectable Midgardian snack he likes so much.

Prize in hand after mere moments, he asks, mouth full, in that booming voice of his, "Captain, may I ask what you are doing?"

Steve flinches as he realises he's no longer alone, appreciating what a sight he must look, but on recognising the dulcet tones as belonging to a particular blonde God of Thunder, he doesn't raise his head, merely mumbles something unintelligible into the table from where he lies, face crushed against the metal.

Thor sits down opposite him, the box of Poptarts still firmly in hand.

"Why are you not with Stark in the healing room?" he inquires, head tilted to one side.

Steve sighs against the table. He turns his face up slightly to look at the god, eyes tired, and leans his chin on his folded arms.

"I don't know, Thor, I just... I guess I just needed a minute to myself. Kinda got, something on my mind…" He trails into silence.

The god regards him levelly, then points a Poptart at him.

"You have kept your vigil admirably, Captain. Any Asgardian would be proud to have displayed the same dedication as you have shown these few days past." He sprays crumbs across the shiny surface of the table as he speaks.

"What else could I do?" Steve exhales heavily, raising a hand in a defeated gesture.

"I  _had_  to stay with him. I couldn't leave him like that. He's a teammate, he's… he's  _more_  than a teammate, and I…" the captain trails off again, and his voice is desperately sad as he adds,

"I couldn't let him wake up in a place like that alone…"

The god goes quiet, and after a time, slowly says, "As you did?"

At that, Steve can only nod, unable to summon the breath to respond after Thor had taken the words right out of his mouth, the plain truth.

Thor is silent for a moment, before speaking again, his voice calm and quiet as before.

"In this you are much like Son of Coul, Captain, when he stood watch at your own bedside," he says it assuredly, his hand carelessly waving a Poptart through the air, "He too stood present while one dear to him lay with mind far afield, watching as they slept, though I confess," he shrugs, "I did not know you had such strong feelings for the Man of Iron. This goes far beyond the bonds of comradeship, even of fraternal love."

Then Thor smiles at him, a broad toothy grin, eyes warm, "Return to him, Captain, for he will need you, like as not. And know I wish you well in your endeavour."

Steve gapes up at Thor, unable to protest or even  _begin_  to try to explain himself. With a knowing glance, Thor leans over to squeeze Steve's arm in a way that the captain imagines must have been an encouragement, and he can't help but wince at the powerful grip. Steve is almost certain that what Thor has just said essentially equates to the god giving Tony and himself his "blessing", and he can't quite decide what that even  _means_ , let alone how he feels about it.

He only pauses for a moment, before straightening up with a reluctant sigh, his heart having made his mind up for him.

"Looks like I'd better go and try to explain myself a little better," he says, rubbing his arm where the pressure of Thor's fingers had surely bruised the skin.

As Steve passes him, the god grins and claps a hand heartily against his back, and for all his strength, Steve feels the wind go out of him just a little. He manages a smile and a wheeze and trudges from the kitchen, leaving the god happily chewing Poptarts at the table behind him.


	10. Confessions

Steve stands outside the door, mumbling to himself. To the casual observer, he probably looks like he's got a serious case of the crazies, but actually, he's rehearsing his lines.

He's not sure if what he's going to say is good enough as explanations go, but hell, it's all he's got, so it'll have to do.

He exhales, turning his head from side to side, jumps up and down, does a strange little jog on the spot, and he's ready. As ready as he'll ever be, anyway.

He opens the door, speech on the tip of his tongue, "Uh, Tony, I…" and trails off abruptly.

The room in front of him is empty.

More to the point, the room is clean, with not a trace of the billionaire anywhere in it. It's as neat as if he had never been there at all.

Steve blinks in confusion.

" _What the_ …?"

Calling out for a doctor, he turns on his heel and actually  _runs_  back down the corridor. He needs to find someone  _now_ and  _demand_  to know why Tony isn't in his bed anymore. Steve knows he can't have been gone for more than 3 hours, and mind racing with the beginnings of panic, he curses under his breath, " _Where the hell have you gone this time, Stark?"_

…

The sun feels glorious on his skin, and the metal all around him radiates heat back and forth. Basking in the delicious warmth, Tony silently thanks God,  _or yknow, whoever_ , for emergency exits and roof terraces.

Arms blissfully free of IV lines and wires,  _finally_ , Tony stretches languidly back against the roof, easing out all the kinks that have settled in his muscles as he lay bedridden. His spine gives a satisfying crunch somewhere, the pop sounding loudly across the open space around him, and Tony hums in approval.

He wriggles a little, until he finds  _just_ the right comfy spot, and folds his hands back under his head, sighing contentedly. He closes his eyes and smiles, head tilted up to the sun. After the cool clinical fluorescence of the recovery room,  _man_ , is that sunshine gorgeous. He  _hates_  hospitals and doctors and anywhere or any _thing_  associated with them, so he is damn glad he managed to make his escape.

He grins at the memory of the junior nurse's face as he'd waved the signed discharge form in front of her. Poor thing'd had no idea how to handle the situation; Tony standing before her, pale and full of holes from the IVs, with wire sucker marks still adorning his chest and no shoes, as he'd leaned over the counter to steal a t-shirt. He'd grinned smugly at her as her mouth flapped open and closed. Despite her better judgement, the form  _was_ law, so to speak, and so she hadn't been able to do anything to stop him leaving, not even voice a protest (aside from shouting "Uh, SIR..!" at his retreating back), before he'd taken off at a run, speeding away down the corridor to safety and, better yet,  _freedom_ , cackling vaguely manically.

Now safely hidden away on the roof, Tony lies on his back, feeling the sun's glorious warmth seep into his skin, and for some reason he thinks of reptiles lying on barren desert rock in the baking heat of Spain or Mexico or somewhere dry and arid, and he chuckles at the sheer randomness of the thought. He's so utterly content to simply be  _outside_  at last that, if he could, he would probably be purring. He knows that someone will find him soon enough though, that this is but a brief respite, so he's damn well going to make the most of it.

He lies there, peaceful, thoroughly enjoying thinking of nothing at all, and he is half-asleep when a shadow falls across his face, blocking the sun, and a slightly breathless voice says, "Stark?"

"Yes, dear?" he answers absently, sleepily.

When he opens one eye and sees that the voice belongs to one Captain Steve Rogers, he sits up so violently that he instantly lets out a wheeze of pain as the sudden lurch threatens to tear through the stitches across his ribs.

" _Holy mother of, aaaagh_ ," he clutches at his side," _GOD DAMNIT, ROGERS, DON'T SNEAK UP ON ME, I'M FUCKING WOUNDED, Jesus Christ ALMIGHTY._ "

Steve purses his lips in disapproval at what Tony assumes is the profanities, but knows is probably (actually) his sudden disappearance, and the captain folds his arms, tapping one finger against his bicep.

Tony leans slowly back onto his elbows, grimacing at the pain in his agitated wound.

"Don't just stand there gawking, Rogers, it's rude. Would you sit down?"

The captain continues to glare at him, looking not unlike an angry parent clutching their kid's bad report card.

"Would you sit down,  _please_?" Tony presses, waving a hand at the empty space to his right.

Steve harrumphs, and that  _is_  the most accurate way to put it, and somewhat reluctantly lowers himself onto the roof beside Tony, pulling his knees up and leaning his arms across them.

He waves what Tony recognises as a stamped medical form at him, and,  _ah_ , yes, Tony sees his own signature scrawled messily on the bottom. He smiles guiltily at the captain.

 _Uh oh_.

Steve looks him in the eye.

"Why did you discharge yourself, Tony? Are you even allowed to do that?" Then he sighs, and rubs at his eyes with his free hand, "You know what, never mind, the answer is probably no, isn't it?"

He looks back at Tony again, who shrugs noncommittally, and certainly not apologetically, effectively answering his question, and the captain sighs again.

"Couldn't you at least have left me a note? You scared the hell out of me..."

And Tony chuckles wryly at that, "Oh and here I was thinking that we didn't do that, leave each other notes, I mean."

Steve starts at the comment, at the suggestion, surely a reference to all the time they'd spent together in Tony's lab over the past few months, and he gives Tony a strange look.

The billionaire then sighs theatrically.

"I  _hate_  hospitals, Rogers, and I hate the recovery room just as much, you know that. Why the hell would I stay there any longer than I absolutely had to? The answer, before you get it wrong, is that I wouldn't. No sir."

He absentmindedly scratches at the bandages under his t-shirt, "God, these  _itch_ …"

Steve realises his mouth is hanging open, and he snaps it shut as he tries to get his thoughts together. It takes him a minute, and though he still doesn't quite understand the nonchalance in Tony's manner (given how he'd acted the last time Steve spoke to him, about…  _that_ ), Steve finally remembers why he'd come to find Tony in the first place, remembers the speech he'd planned out so meticulously, so methodically, and he clears his throat to begin, before Tony managed to distract him again and he forgot entirely.

"Tony, about what happened earlier, what I said, I…"

Tony waves a hand in the air, cutting him off, and smoothly (feigned of course, Tony's heart has been fluttering like a caged bird in his chest since he first laid eyes on the captain in the harsh light of day, and he is feeling anything but calm right now), he answers,

"Not necessary, Rogers, I saw the security footage. Fascinating viewing."

Steve can only blink in utter astonishment, mouth open in a silent " _what_ ".

"You… I... wait,  _how_?"

Then the captain presses his fingers against his forehead, and closes his mouth, exhaling heavily through his nose.  _Well, that was his brilliantly planned speech out the window. Great, now he had to improvise, he was terrible at improvising; could this day get any worse?_

He clears his throat, and manages to ask, "Well?" even if it does come out sounding a little strained, his embarrassment clear in the blush high in his cheeks.

He is horribly nervous, and his hands fidget, legs itching to get up and bolt. He definitely feels like running away, just a little bit.

But he doesn't. He keeps himself firmly rooted to the spot on the roof beside Tony, sun beating down on the pair of them.

Tony's skin is pale under its glare, his frame a might slighter, Steve thinks, both from the rabid fever  _and_  having had nothing for nourishment but liquid nutrients fed through an IV for the better part of two weeks. But despite that, Tony glows with warmth; safe, natural warmth, nothing like the all-consuming burn of the fever he'd mercifully managed to fight off. It makes Steve smile to see it.

And Tony smiles back at him as he answers simply, "Well what?"

The billionaire rolls onto his good right side to look up at Steve, propped on one elbow. Then he reaches over and pulls the discharge form out of Steve's hands, folds it up, and pockets it.

He shrugs, casually, and says, "Seems like I've got something to apologise for, actually."

Steve opens his mouth to protest and Tony raises one finger, stopping him.

"Ah, ah, ah. Just wait. Let me say my bit."

So Steve closes his mouth and simply nods.

Tony raises a closed hand to his mouth and coughs against it to clear his throat, somewhat theatrically.

"Steve Rogers," he starts, hand on heart, "I sincerely apologise for kiss-raping you in my delirious state. I hope that you can find it in your oh-so-tender heart to forgive me for my transgressions."

He pauses, lifting that finger again.

"Plus, I hope that you don't hit me for running away from the recovery room, because, honestly, I don't think my body could handle another beating right now, given the state it's in."

Tony smiles up at him, a strange, quirky little grin, and Steve's heart does a brave flip in his chest as he feels himself smiling back, grin stretching across his face.

"Tony, don't be ridiculous, of course I forgive you-"

And the billionaire grins even wider in response.

"Oh really? You know, I'm actually surprised, because I thought for sure that you were gonna give me a hard time about it, lecture me or haul me up in front of Fury, or you know, something like that…"

Steve laughs because he can't help it; because he's nervous and because Tony is just so delightfully, wonderfully,  _thankfully_ ,  _Tony_ again, not the pale wasting ghost he'd been watching for the past few days. He feels like a weight is gone from his shoulders, a burden lifted, and looking out across the rolling fields around them, blue sky overhead, Steve really can't help but smile. It's a beautiful day.

And despite having his well-rehearsed speech go completely to the dogs, he still needs to explain himself. He still needs to get something off his chest. There's something he needs Tony to know, something he needs to tell him, and absolutely typically, he – Steve Rogers, old-fashioned straight talker – is suddenly finding it  _incredibly_  difficult to talk straight.

Frankly, the entire situation he has found himself in is absurd, and totally new, utterly alien to him. He can't quite get the damn words out, though he knows that he needs to. He guesses that that's just how feelings work, unfortunately, and he has to chuckle quietly at that.

But with the blazing sun beating down against his skin, warming him down to the very marrow of his bones, it suddenly doesn't feel so difficult anymore.

Tony notes the silent smile on his face, and asks,

"What're you thinking about, Rogers?"

Steve's mouth spreads slowly into its signature lopsided smile,

"I just, uh, I just wanted to say something," he turns to Tony, and in a way not dissimilar to the other man moments before, the captain admonishes him with a wagging finger, and says, "and  _don't say anything_  until I'm finished okay? Just let me talk."

Tony puts his hands up in a gesture that says "Sure, whatever, Cap, go for it."

Because there's something he needs to know, too.

But then his nerves get the better of him, and just as Steve starts to speak, he can't help himself, and the babble pushes its way up and out of his mouth in a rush.

They start to talk simultaneously, speaking over each other, eyes fixed on their feet.

"Steve, uh, I don't know how to put this, and I don't want to freak you out, though God knows it's freaking  _me_ out, but I think, no, I  _know_ that…"

"Tony, look, I know this will sound ridiculous, and it does, believe me I get that, but I can't help how I feel, and I just, I really, I need to tell you that…"

Then both say, in perfect unison,

" _I like you_."

They turn to blink at each other, stunned, as the sun cascades warmly down, and both mouths suddenly ask,

" _What?_ "

It only takes a second for Tony to open his mouth to begin to protest or argue or make some kind of stupid comment, and Steve just shushes him with a hand, his long-suffering sigh all exasperated frustration, yet he smiles as he speaks.

"Tony, for once in your life, just shut up and don't ask questions, okay?"

And he takes Tony's flustered face in his hands and leans in, to press a kiss to his lips.

Solid, unyielding, and utterly familiar, Steve's mouth is soft against his own, and nodding, accepting the kiss, Tony all but melts in the dizzying heat of the golden sun above them.

As he feels himself relax completely into the captain's touch, he wonders just how long his heart has known what his mind could not admit.

Steve's lips part from his all too soon, and Tony makes a soft sound in protest, but the captain raises a curled hand to rest it against Tony's cheek, and he laughs quietly, like he can't quite believe his eyes.

A strange sort of panic is climbing in Tony's chest, heart still fluttering like tiny trapped wings, and he can feel a familiar crippling insecurity begin to stir deep down in the dark places inside of him, poised to rear its ugly head; all his feelings of worthlessness, fears of humiliation and rejection, are rising, threatening him with the stranglehold he knows so well, and Tony gulps down air like a drowning man.

His tongue darts across his lips, and, still dazed, he does a slow almost double-take, and asks warily, "What exactly are we doing here, Rogers?"

And then there is a hand winding strong fingers through his own as the captain's gaze meets his, and he sees the look glittering in Steve's eyes, a slow burn that warms him just as deeply as the sun beating down on his skin. He looks so sure, so certain, that piercing gaze full of something that Tony can almost put a name to, but he won't, not yet, not until he knows for sure.

This is the beginning of something; Tony can feel it unfurling in the pit of his stomach, in the ends of his fingers and the tips of his toes, and it is fragile as blown glass, and just as mesmerising. Dancing in Steve's eyes, reflected in pools of deep clear blue, Tony sees something flicker, and it glows in him like a tiny sun. It is beautiful.

And he feels the panicked insecurity scuttling around inside him slowly begin to retreat, returning to the darkness in face of that glowing, burning brightness. It fades, the fears and the monsters slipping away, like shadows drawing back, leaving only dappled sunlight and spheres of brilliant blue.

Steve's voice is gentle as he cups Tony's face in his hand, and presses his forehead to his.

"Who knows what we're doing, Tony,  _I_  sure as hell don't. I'm not exactly an expert at this stuff, am I?" he chuckles again, and Tony's skin tingles as the sound tickles deliciously through the air. The captain speaks softly, breath hot against Tony's lips.

"But _this_ , Tony, whatever it is, can we, can we  _not_  pick it apart just yet? I promise, you can ask  _all_  the questions you want, but just,  _later_."

Then he smiles that charming lopsided smile of his, as he brushes a thumb across Tony's cheek, eyes bright, to say, "And at least now we know, right?"

And it is all Tony can do to nod, heart racing, before he is pulled back into the blissful embrace of Steve's arms around him, breathing him in, holding him closer.

It sets his skin afire, lighting him up, and the warmth electrifies him, dancing through his limbs as they sit entwined. His smile is so wide and so bright against Steve's lips that it could outshine the blazing sun above, and a breeze curls softly about them, lifting wisps of dandelion in the sea of yellow fields below, spinning them skyward to float, sun-drenched and still, in dazzling golden splendour.


	11. Night Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance if this chapter is confusing to read! The first section is essentially a flashback, describing a fairly large period of time that has just passed, and hence it's in past tense. The second section, however, is in the same style (present tense narrative) as my previous chapters, describing "current" events. I'm sorry for jumping around between tenses...! '''orz

The slow progress of hours and days marked the passage of time at the SHIELD base where Tony was recovering, and in the endless cycle of day and night, time strolled idly by, lazy and unhurried. As it passed, Steve tended to Tony's wounds and nursed him, after a fashion. There is only so much you can mother Tony Stark after all, and Steve knew full well that the other man was letting him do so. But the wounds were healing, and they were healing well. His bruises had faded, leaving only vague patches of yellow to indicate that they'd ever been there at all. The cast on Tony's leg made it awkward for him to move around easily, but Steve helped him limp along, unable to resist making jokes about it here and there. The nickname "Hop-along Cassidy" caught on pretty quickly, much to Tony's dismay, but though he pretended to complain about his embarrassing new title, Steve could see the laughter in Tony's eyes whenever he referred to him as "Hop-along".

The billionaire and the captain were nigh on inseparable. Walking and limping, respectively, around the base, all agreed they made a bizarre pair. The others would see them sitting and talking, laughing and cracking jokes, occasionally shoving each other in a playful facsimile of a sparring match, but the captain was never too rough with the still-healing Stark.

What the others never saw were the stolen moments.

It was clear to anyone with eyes in their head that Steve and Tony deeply respected each other as friends, and as people, but there was far more than that burning beneath the surface, something much deeper at play that no one else was privy to, and every day it grew a little stronger.

The others never saw the notes Tony scrawled on the corners of Steve's sketches, nor those secreted in jacket pockets or folded under mugs.  
They never saw the deliberate glancing contact of skin on skin snatched as the two of them went about their business.  
They never saw the captain tucked away with his sketchpad in an alcove, awaiting the moment Tony passed by his hiding place, unsuspecting, when Steve would snag him, a finger hooked through the belt loop of his jeans, to wrap an arm around his waist and draw him close to steal a kiss in the half light.  
They never saw them share sunrise on that rooftop, an unspoken agreement declaring it "their spot" after their mutual confession, and the brick and metal of that place had witnessed a great many more kisses since then.

If stone could speak, it would talk of the tenderness between them, of soft words and softer touch, of Tony's fire and passion, of Steve's quiet strength and pure heart; maybe even of love.  
But stone does not speak, and so their secrets remained within its confines, in that quiet space between hot brick and blue sky.

Located as it was in the sprawling empty heart of America, there were times when the SHIELD base felt like the very centre of the universe. There was earth, sky, and open road, snaking through golden fields and dry red soil, that sprawled for miles in every direction, and not much else. With the spirit of the Pioneers of old, Steve itched to explore the sweeping plains and stretching spaces of pale emptiness around the facility on his beloved bike, but he had left her back in New York. After he mentioned the idea in passing one day, Tony somehow convinced one of the junior staff members to lend them a SHIELD-issue truck, despite protests that Tony wasn't confirmed fit to leave base just yet. The billionaire waved away their concerns, pointing out that not only had he had his stitches removed, but his cast was gone too, at long last - though internally he begrudgingly admitted that he was still far from full strength.

But to the medics, he pushed it. As he was, he wasn't good for much other than sight-seeing anyway, so why couldn't they let him enjoy the scenery, take in the fresh country air? And besides, how at risk could he be with Captain America himself there to look after him? The medics eventually conceded that he had a point, and agreed to let him leave the base. Tony wasted no time in reporting this to Steve, his new partner in crime, who received the news grinning from ear to ear.

The captain chose a truck without a roof for their adventure, opting for open bars instead of metal and glass, so the two of them could stretch their heads back and watch the muted hues of the plains melt by, a blur all around them in the waning evening light. As they drove, the cool night air washed over Steve's face, rushing through his hair, igniting something in his skin. The sky was hung with stars, such brilliant points of light in the abyss above them, like black velvet dusted with a thousand scattered jewels, burning millions of miles away, and as he looked up into the boundless black overhead, Steve felt a deep sense of peace sink slowly into his bones. Confronted with that infinite sky, strangely, he felt no fear. Instead, he felt connected. On all sides, the land lay open before him in the half light, gaunt and uncharted, broken only by sporadic clusters of jagged rock, and it was beautiful, in a harsh, almost haunted, kind of way. It made him want to paint. It made him want to draw.

With no roof he could see it all, and Tony smiled beside him.

There was something infinitely lonely about the plains at twilight, in their pale stillness, their washed-out colours, everything faded to grey, ochre, umber, by time and fierce winds, rolling ceaselessly over them. Sharp piles of rock reached up and pierced the sky, crags towering above the cracked earth, worn and sun-bleached, clawing up at the dark above. Wild dogs howled in the night, and the doleful sound sent shivers through them as they raced the open roads, the highways stretching silver, shining out into the night, strips of reflection a brilliant white in a sea of dark, cold earth, and the distance called to them. The horizon was endless, curving in a wide arc all around them, the roads a ribbon tying the world together with glittering moonlight.

On such nights they would stop, nowhere in particular, and climb the rocky spires upward, coming to pause in grooves and on ledges, a tangible calmness suspended like moisture in the night air. Insects creaked and hissed and screeched, a cacophony against the silence of the yawning dark. The air, so wind-licked as it was, would sting their faces when they climbed too high, but it was a sharp freshness, and pure, a burning ghost shifting on the breeze. The bite of it on their cheeks, the rush of it as it whipped through their hair, as they turned further upwards, was breath taking in and of itself. And Tony would lift his hands to his mouth and howl out across the vast expanse of rock and dirt, and the plains howled back, an echo racing on swift wings across the earth, rushing back to meet him. Stood atop the stony peak, with eyes full of starlight and silence, he would spread his arms wide, king of the world. And Steve would wrap his arms around him, nose to the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat, and the silent kisses he pressed to his skin were tinged with biting wind, a sparkling cold woken by the breeze that swept along the harsh lines of the plains around them and the planes of their bodies both, and Tony would shiver.

On these pale cloudless nights, the earth whispered to them, the moon beat down bright on their skin, and they drank in the cold, still world, together.

. . .

_PRESENT DAY_

. . .

The captain and the billionaire still keep to their own rooms when they sleep, not quite willing to cross that particular line just yet. In a sense it would be more accurate to say that they decided that it was best to maintain separate quarters because the other team members were not yet aware that the nature of their relationship had changed. Monumentally. That is to say, they just hadn't quite got round to telling them yet.  
The true extent of Steve and Tony's involvement is a secret known to silent stone and sand and sky alone, for the time being at least.

Aside from serving the purpose of pretense, separate rooms also give them their own space to retreat into. However, that doesn't stop Tony from sneaking into Steve's suite most nights, when he's been awake for hours tinkering with his latest project and the urge to see Steve suddenly grips him. He steals slowly, quietly, through the dark corridors and lets himself into the captain's room, slipping under the covers alongside him, where the familiar heat of Steve's sleeping form warms his limbs and calms his mind. He bends his head to the captain's shoulder blades to brush the barest whisper, the slightest hint, of a kiss atop the soft skin there. Sometimes this invites a sleepy murmur from the man curled in the blankets beside him, and the strange new warmth that has taken up residence in Tony's heart purrs and hums inside his chest and, their legs entwined, he curls his toes in the sheets, feeling a happiness bloom inside him unlike anything he has never known. The feeling lifts him, and he is calm and safe in its embrace, curiously certain. Tony feels no fear in those quiet moments, only serenity. Only peace.

Some nights, he meets another body in the hallways as he's making his late-night forays between lab and bed. More often than not, as it is on this particular night, it's Bruce that he encounters, as nocturnal as Tony himself when he has ideas crowding in his skull, begging to be released onto paper.

This night, holding a steaming pot of noodles in one hand and a thick folder in the other, Bruce doesn't seem overly surprised to find Tony creeping through the dark, but he does make him jump when he suddenly, loudly, asks,

"Another midnight stroll, Tony?"

Tony leaps forward, barely managing not to yelp in surprise and shatter the relative silence of the base at night.  
" _Jesus,_ Banner, what the hell, _don't do that_! I nearly jumped out of my fucking skin!" he exhales to try and calm his racing heart, and inquires, "What are you even doing up?"

"Could ask you the same thing, but, uh, I know better," the scientist smiles, and there is something in that smile, that tone of voice, that makes Tony frown, suddenly wondering what he means exactly. Bruce wiggles his noodle pot gently in answer to his question.  
"Needed a snack. Got some pretty big ideas rattling around in my head tonight so I thought I'd get some work done while they're still in there."

Tony's heart rate is calming down, and yet he scrabbles for words, acutely feeling that he needs to cover his tracks here, because he has to throw Bruce off the scent, if he even has it that is...  _Still, better safe than sorry_.

"Yeah, no, I definitely know what that, uh, what that feels like. Too many ideas, too many plans. Designs and concepts all swimming around in your head, I get that, total nightmare. Course, I don't sleep much either, obviously, same sorta problem. No rest for the wicked, etcetera etcetera… Hence me walking around at, uh, at night. Like now, for example. Brain won't let me sleep." Then he claps his hands together, and smiles, backing away in the opposite direction to where Steve's room is located, attempting a feint in case the scientist  _did_  suspect something.

"Anyway, better get back to it, huh? Don't want you forgetting something, do we? Good luck with your, uh,  _thing_ , whatever it is."

And Bruce just raises an eyebrow, smiling that knowing smile again as he pads off down the corridor, "Sure, thanks, and uh, you too. With your  _thing_ ," he makes inverted commas in the air, before he says, "Night, Tony."

Tony is definitely concerned now, but he just nods and answers as nonchalantly as he can manage, "Have fun, big guy."

He makes sure he waits a minute or two, to be sure the doctor is gone, before he creeps back the way he came and quietly lets himself into the captain's bedroom. Inside, Steve is curled up in the middle of bed, fast asleep, his hair a messy blonde halo around his head, and Tony feels the corners of his mouth turn up into a smile as he pads over to climb under the covers beside him.

Curling an arm around Steve's stomach, Tony nudges the back of the captain's neck with his nose as he settles down to sleep, the warm smell of him comforting, and he thinks about his encounter with Banner, wondering if the scientist  _did_  in fact know why he was  _really_  sneaking around in the dark. But even if Banner  _did_  know, Tony has no idea what he'd say to him if the man were to ask him straight out for an explanation, because, truth be told, neither Tony nor Steve had yet managed to summon the courage to broach the subject of  _defining_  what exactly existed between them.  
With neither of them particularly willing to be the first to bring it up, they haven't had  _that_  conversation, and so, instead, they carry on in much the same way as they have been, undefined, yes, but for the time being, content.

They aren't quite ready to explain themselves to the world just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random bonus titbit of info, the alternative titles for this were Metamorphosis,We Drove All Night, and Howling at the Moon.
> 
> \+ I wrote while listening to ThePianoGuys covers of A Thousand Years - Christina Perri, and Just The Way You Are - Bruno Mars :) check them out on Youtube!


	12. Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Steve decide to break it to the team...
> 
> this chapter is deliciously dialogue-heavy, so enjoy! you get flawless Natasha, inappropriate Clint, classic Thor, and awkward Bruce!

Tony sits at his workbench in the lab, fiddling with wiring and listening to Steve pacing and fretting. He's been rambling for about half an hour already, worrying his hands together and running them through his hair.

Tony puts down his soldering iron and lifts up his goggles, exasperated, "Steve, seriously, will you  _please_  stop with the pacing? It is starting to drive me a little crazy here."

Steve abruptly stops and looks at him, a pained expression on his face.

"Tony, we  _need_  to tell them. We've been doing this," and he gestures to Tony and himself, "for what, two months now? They  _must_  suspect  _something_. I mean, I just, I feel bad that they don't know. We really should've said something by now, but it just keeps getting more and more difficult to think of how to say it."

Steve's conscience is clearly getting the better of him, and Tony rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, deciding it is far too early to be having this conversation, not to mention the fact that he hasn't even had his first coffee of the day yet.

And Steve is still talking.

"I just want to be honest and come right out with it," and Tony snorts at the unintentional pun, "but I have no idea how they're gonna react and I  _know_  we're not exactly hiding it or sneaking around, not really, but…" Steve makes an anguished  _agh_  and agitatedly runs his hands through his hair, mussing it further, "Oh who am I kidding, we  _are_ sneaking around! God, Tony, we're acting like a pair lovesick of teenagers or something!" He doesn't see Tony look at him strangely when he mentions love.

Then Steve sighs, hands clasped behind his head, "We owe them the truth, Tony. They're our team. We have to tell them about us."

And Tony simply says, "Fine, we'll tell them."

Steve pauses, genuinely surprised by that response, tilting his head to one side, "What, really?"

Tony shrugs and turns back to his wires, "Sure. Just, not right this second, okay? I'm trying to get this bastard thing finished."

Steve bites his lip and, with an internal groan, Tony hears him resume his pacing.

"Tony, I just can't help thinking that if what we're doing is gonna mess with the team then, I don't know, maybe we shouldn't be doing it... What if the others are too bugged out by us being, well…  _involved_? It could compromise our missions, our safety, and what if-"

Tony just looks at him.

"Steve, never  _in my life_ have I denied myself what I want just because other people don't like it. Do you want us to stop this? Is that what you're telling me?"

Steve shakes his head, looking stricken at the mere thought of it, "God, Tony,  _no_ , that's not what I meant at all, I just-", and Tony nods.

"Good, because I'm the kinda guy that knows what he wants. I know what I want, and if I can have it then I damn well will, and to hell with everybody else.  _No one_  tells me what I can't have or can't do."

He discards the bundle of wires in his hand, and turns to face the captain fully, "And besides, it's not their call, Steve. Who the hell are they to tell us we can't be together?"

And at much the same time, they both silently realise that that is the closest they've come to acknowledging that what they share is actually a "relationship", but before Steve can comment, Tony stands up and walks over, stopping just in front of him.

He rubs Steve's arms gently as he says,

"They'll get used to the idea, honest to God, they will. Even if they don't like it at first, they'll warm up to it."  
He shrugs, "It might, y'know, take a while, but they'll come round eventually."

Steve leans down to rest his forehead on Tony's shoulder and sighs into his neck, inhaling the warm smell of him, the tang of hot metal still present on his skin.

"I hope you're right, Tony, really I do."

Tony strokes the back of Steve's neck and tilts his head up, to gently press a kiss to his lips. Steve smiles instinctively against Tony's mouth, hands coming to rest on his waist. Their lips part, and Steve says softly,

"We should tell them."

Tony sighs, "Yeah, I know. And we will, soon, I promise."

Then he grins up at the captain, "Now, can we  _please_  go get a coffee before I get really cranky? As I'm sure you're aware, cranky Tony is awful for everyone involved. Complete monster."

Steve nods, smiling.

. . .

"Well, personally, I'm 99.9% sure that there's something going on that they're not telling us."

Clint waves his mug at the others, sat round the table in the kitchen.

"I mean, come on, you'd have to be dumb as a box of rocks not to notice. Don't laugh, Tasha, I'm being serious! Don't tell me you haven't seen the way they keep making weird goo-goo eyes at each other. It's gross."

He takes a sip of coffee and shakes his head.

Bruce speaks without looking up from his equations, papers stacked around him at the end of the table.

"I gotta say, Tony  _has_  been sneaking around a lot at night recently. I mean, he's always been nocturnal, sure, but I don't think it's just lab work that keeps him up so late these days. Last time I caught him creeping about in the dark I'm pretty sure he thought he threw me off, but there's nothing at the end of that particular corridor except two empty rooms, Steve's suite, and uh, oh and a broom closet." He scratches behind his ear with his pencil and scribbles a few more lines.

Thor is leaning against the worktop by the sink, absently rolling a box in his huge hands.

"Well I, for one, am pleased that they may have finally admitted their affections. It is obvious to any man with eyes that they care for one another. Now at least they can make sincere attempt to bond as lovers, without false pretences." Then the god's brow furrows, "Though I confess, that they imagine that we do not know about their physical involvement is somewhat insulting."

Clint folds one arm under the other, "Damn right. What kind of morons do they take us for?"

Natasha brushes bagel crumbs from her mouth and speaks up, "Guys, give them a break."

The three men stare at her for a moment. Then she just shrugs, half a bagel on her finger like a pastry ring, and she takes a bite out of it before continuing,

"What? It must be pretty confusing, waking up one day with those kinds of feelings, right? I mean, Clint, what if Bruce suddenly turned round and told you he had a crush on you?"

Both men suddenly look vaguely horrified, and perhaps a mite panicky.

Natasha waves her free hand dismissively, "Guys, calm down, it was just an example. But think about it," she pauses, "wouldn't that be a little frightening? Maybe they're just worried about how we're gonna react."

She takes another bite out of her bagel.  
"They just need some time, is all," she shrugs again, chewing, "They'll tell us when they tell us."

Clint shakes his head, and mutters " _Unbelievable…_ " under his breath, and Bruce has his eyes firmly fixed on the paper in front of him.

The sound of laughter outside makes all their heads snap up.

Tony and Steve saunter in through the doorway, Tony's hand on the small of Steve's back. As they enter, Bruce looks up to meet Clint's eye, who nods to Tony's hand and gives the scientist a pointed " _told you_ " look.

"Morning all," says Tony loudly. The others nod in greeting, and Thor responds with a pleasant " _Good morning_ ".

Steve is smiling ear to ear as he sets two mugs down on the side and fetches the coffee pot, busying himself with changing the filter. Clint raises an eyebrow because the two mugs match, and Natasha smirks.

Tony claps his hands together cheerfully.

"So, how are we today? Working hard I see, Bruce, you want a coffee or something?" and when he nods, "Great, Steve can you get that? Any of you had breakfast yet? Because I can whip some omelettes, if you want? Might take a while, as I'm sort of having trouble getting the prep time under three hours, but hey, the final product is worth the wait. Or so I'm told. Well, actually, no one's ever eaten one of my omelettes before and lived to tell the tale, but still…"

"Tony, shut up, it's too early for your ramblings," Steve chastises as he stirs milk into his coffee, and Thor chuckles. Clint says nothing, just folds his arms, and the look on his face indicates that he's thinking about something, eyes constantly watchful.

Steve passes a full mug to Tony, who hands it to Bruce. The scientist murmurs a thank-you and takes a deep swig of black coffee, before burying himself back in his notes.

"You really do immerse yourself in your work, don't you doctor?" Tony asks, leaning over his shoulder to look, "I mean, Jesus, it's not even 10am and you're scribbling away. What is this, quantum mechanics?"

Bruce simply nods and " _mhmm's_ " in agreement and keeps writing, hand racing across the page. Tony stands behind him, eyes scanning over the equations and calculations, now and then pointing out errors and asking questions.

Watching them, Steve leans on the worktop beside Thor and shakes his head at the two, a smile on his face.

"Science bros, huh? Y'know, I never have a single clue what they're rabbiting on about. I kinda tune out after a while."

Thor nods in agreement, and Steve spies a Poptart box clutched in his fist.

"Are you… are you just eating those straight out of the packet now?" he asks.

And Thor grins at him, crumbs in his beard, and Steve laughs.

Natasha twirls the second half of her bagel on a finger, and before anyone can shush or stop her, she asks, bluntly,

"So, when were you two going to tell us?"

Then she fixes Tony with a pointed stare.

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows.

Steve's mouth twitches from an open "o" to a hard line and back again. Coffee mugs precariously in hand, he has that "deer caught in headlights" look. There was no room for manoeuvre in that question, no doubt concerning its intention, or what it was addressing. But while Steve flaps like a fish out of water, Tony keeps his cool.

From behind the scientist, without looking up from Bruce's notes, he says nonchalantly,

"Tell you about what? My darling Natasha, I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," he points to a scribbled line on the paper in front of him as he spots an error, "Bruce, that plus should be a minus. The whole thing falls out in about three lines after that, you can scrap the rest of the working out you just did. Bummer, huh? So annoying how you get just one sign wrong and you waste sheets and sheets of paper, right?"

He calmly walks over to Steve, steals two Poptarts from the box in Thor's hand, much to the god's obvious dismay, and says, "C'mon, Cap, bring the coffee and let's bounce. I've got that thing in the lab to show you."

And Clint laughs, "Oh I bet you do."

Tony raises an eyebrow at the archer, "I'm sorry, what?"

Unmoving, Steve's eyes are firmly fixed on the floor, rooted in place.

Clint's arms are unfolded now.

"Look, guys, we know, okay? We know. And it's not an issue. We don't care if you two've decided to "get jiggy", or whatever," and he makes the inverted commas in the air, "but it'd be nice to actually know what's going on. I mean, come on, did you think we wouldn't notice? Hell, did you think  _I_ wouldn't notice?" He snorts at that last sentence.

Then Bruce raises a hand at him, motioning him to stop, to drop it, "Clint, just shut it, okay?"

And Clint puts his hands up, "What? Tasha is right, when  _were_  they gonna tell us? We can see what's going on here. We're not idiots, Banner, we have eyes."

Steve is still silent, and Tony turns round to face the four of them, expression vaguely tight, more in sympathy with Steve's obvious discomfort than anything.

"Okay, sure, you want an explanation? Fine, let me make it simple for you. We were literally just discussing telling you, actually."

He points at Steve, still holding the coffees so awkwardly.

"I like him, he likes me. It took us a while to acknowledge that, sure, to get over the weirdness of us being two guys or whatever, because it was new territory for both of us, but we got there in the end. And no, before you ask, it is  _not_  going to affect the team dynamic, if that's what you're worrying about. In fact, if anything, it will probably make it better, because now your two daddies won't be fighting all the time."

"Daddies?"

Clint's eyebrows have shot up so far up his forehead that they almost disappear into his hair. He coughs out a " _ha_ " and shakes his head, "Did you seriously just refer to yourselves as  _daddies_?"

Thor is confused, "As in fathers? Fathers of what?" he blinks, "Of us? Stark, your language confuses me, explain."

Natasha silently chews her bagel, and Bruce is trying not to look at anyone.

Tony sighs, and pats down in the air with his hands.

"Guys, guys, please. It's really not that big a deal, honestly. And hey, now you know. So just, carry on as you were."

He takes a mug from out of Steve's hands and nods to the door, "C'mon Steve."

But Steve doesn't move to follow him. Instead, his fingers tighten round the mug he's holding, and when he speaks it is in a quiet voice.

"And if we  _had_ told you before now that we have feelings for each other, and not just as friends, would that have changed how you think about us? Or how you'd act?"

Natasha just shrugs, and takes another bite out of the bagel on her finger.

"Of course not. As long as it doesn't affect the way we work, or compromise our missions, I have no problems with it."

Thor continues to look confused, but for a different reason now.

"Why would the fact that you care for one another change my opinion of you? I see no reason that the bond you share should have any bearing whatsoever on my sentiments or my actions. Did I not give you my blessing, Captain? You wish to be together, and I have no quarrel with that. I hold no prejudice against it. In Asgard it is entirely acceptable for two brothers to -"

And Clint cuts him off, holding up a hand, "Okay, Thor, let me just stop you there. Just want to clarify something. Do you mean brothers-in-arms brothers, or do you mean  _brothers_  brothers? As in, you-and-Loki brothers?"

Thor looks at him, the slightest hint of a blush creeping across his cheeks.  
"Blood brother does not lie with blood brother, if that is what you ask. Though such an act is not expressly forbidden by Asgardian law, it is frowned upon. " He regards the archer quizzically, "It is not done."

Fidgeting slightly, a rare thing for the god, Thor continues more quietly, "And though Loki may be my brother, it is not by blood."

He seems almost uncomfortable talking about Loki, and it doesn't go unnoticed, though no one seems willing to press any further down  _that_  particular bizarre little road. They have mixed feelings about Thor's dubious relationship with the God of Mischief, to say the very least, and frankly, no one wants to know.

But Steve nods at Thor's words, and then turns his attention back to Clint, who rolls his eyes theatrically.

"Just, ugh,  _please_  don't let me catch you doing anything weird, okay? Because I seriously think I'd throw up if I saw you two making out in the hallway or something. Just, keep it to yourselves, alright? Spare me the nausea…"

When both Tony and Steve look at him, Bruce taps his pencil on the table and says with a shrug,

"Hey, it's fine by me, though honestly I'm kinda surprised that you'd need anyone's blessing, Tony."

The billionaire snorts at that, "Thanks for that, doc. Much appreciated."

"Well, you know it's true," the scientist retorts, smiling, and Steve visibly relaxes as he realises that the team is accepting it, his signature lopsided grin suddenly making a dazzling re-appearance.

And now Clint raises an eyebrow, tone teasing.  
"So have you two, uh, y'know, "done the dirty" yet?" he asks, motioning at them with his coffee mug.

Steve blushes all the way to his roots, as he always does, and Tony tuts and gives Clint a disapproving look.  
" _No_ , Clint, Jesus, we have not "done the dirty" yet. God, what are you, 14? And it is really none of your business anyway, you absolute pervert."

"What! I was just asking what everyone else was thinking, jeez, sorry…!" the archer grins at them, shrugging in mock apology.

"Yeah, sure you are,  _not_ ," Tony responds.

Steve is shaking his head, relieved, laughing and smiling again, and Tony can't help but smile back.

Until Natasha asks, "So, what're you gonna tell Fury?"

And everyone in the room winces at once, as Steve and Tony look at each other.

"Ah."


	13. Try A Little Tenderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are lots of little snippets of scene in this one, hence all the breaks, and i really recommend waiting a few seconds at each break so the story flows better!
> 
> also, the darling old man at the end? after a review comment on FF.net, i totally picture him as Stan Lee now.  
> consider it accepted as headcanon because it is genuinely hilarious to imagine :3

_. . ._

Tony rubs the back of his neck with one hand, the other resting on his waist, and he surveys the damage around them, exhaling in a long, low whistle.

"Well,  _that_  was more fun than I ever want to have again."

Steve is sitting on a pile of rubble, covered in dust and flecks of brick, picking specks of burning embers from his suit, and he smiles wryly at Tony's comment.

"Yeah, can't argue with you on that," he laughs.

Through the comms they hear a burst of static and then Fury's voice saying, "Nice work, team. Barton, Romanov, Agent Hill will be with you shortly. Banner, Thor, a chopper is two blocks down from your location. Captain, Mr. Stark, pickup ETA 10 minutes."

Tony replies "Copy that", then removes his helmet. He rolls his shoulders and turns to look at the captain.

Steve watches his innocent smile turn into a not-so-innocent smirk, sees the look in his eyes, and shakes his head "no", because that look is pure mischief.

He holds up his hands to protest against whatever plot the billionaire is hatching in his head, "Oh no, Tony, I know that look. We're in the middle of the street…" he trails off, looking around him at the smoking wreckage, "Okay, we're in the middle of what  _used_ to be a street, but that is hardly the point. Now is  _not_  the time to-"

Tony's predatory smile widens further as his eyes sparkle with that mischievous glint, "Oh come on, Steve, just a little one? You heard the Director, we have a whole ten minutes before pickup arrives, and it's been  _far_  too long since we were left alone together…" He takes a step towards the captain and Steve stands up, shield rolling off his legs, and backs away a little.

"No you don't, Tony Stark, don't even think about it! We will get in  _serious_  trouble if a civilian sees us doi-"

"Shut up, Steve," Tony murmurs, smiling, as he closes the gap between them.

He pushes him hard backwards against the only wall that has somehow managed to remain standing through the chaos of the fight, and feels the captain grunt from the impact. Tony's blood is thoroughly up from the chase, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and right now there is nothing he wants to do more than, well,  _have a little fun_.

Steve's eyes flicker from Tony's mouth to his eyes and back again, and Tony can see in them the struggle between throwing all caution to the wind and ordering him  _as his superior_  to stop fooling around. But then Tony looks up at Steve through long lashes and bites his lip coyly, because he knows  _exactly_  what that does to the captain, and with that small motion the internal struggle is over, and it is all too obvious which side won out. He can't help the grin that spreads across his face when Steve makes an exasperated noise, halfway between a groan and a sigh, giving up, giving in, and grabs the edge of Tony's suit at the base of his neck, yanking him closer. Tony lurches forward and has to slam his hands up against the brick behind Steve's head to stop himself falling. The feeling of falling is pretty familiar to him by now, he has to admit, though  _that_ is a different type of falling altogether.

He captures Steve's lips in a fierce kiss, possessive and demanding, and the captain moans against his mouth, hands pressed up against the cold metal of Tony's armour, silently thanking God for the piles of rubble towering around them, a makeshift shield against prying eyes.

Tony threads his fingers through the captain's hair, strands snagging in the joints of his armour plating, pulling him closer, silencing any protests about Fury or civilians with snaring lips and searching tongue, and for a time they are alone, but for the crackling of dying fires scattered about them, flakes of ash still falling in the air like snow.

Breath short, Steve pulls back just slightly, Tony's face in his hands, "Tony,  _wait_ , we should get to the rendezvous point before-"

"Shut  _up_ , Steve," Tony growls more fiercely, pressing Steve harder up against the wall, circling his wrists with armoured fingers and pinning him there.

Their breath comes in ragged bursts, rushed, heated snatches melding together. Their eyes lock for just a moment, dark with want, before the captain pushes back, hands wrenching free of Tony's grip to curl at the chinks in his armour, digging in and pulling the billionaire closer, as close as the suit will allow. His questing lips are crushed against Tony's own, matching his fierceness, his passion, and Tony greedily steals the moans from his mouth, aching.

The sharp edges of the armour dig into the fabric of the captain's own suit, and Steve vaguely hears something tear near his stomach, the sudden sharp bite of cold metal on his bare skin making him gasp in shock.

When he does, Tony breaks away from Steve's mouth and trails tiny bites down his neck, from his ear to the edge of the fabric of his suit, and he feels the captain shudder under his lips, which only makes him press closer.

" _Tony_ ," Steve murmurs against the shell of the billionaire's ear, "Tony, we should,  _ah_ , we have to  _stop_ now, we-"

As if on cue, the whine of a jet engine cuts through the air.

"God  _damn it_ …" Tony growls into the soft hollow beneath Steve's ear, "Can't get two fucking seconds alone…"

The craft sinks lower and lower, and Tony grazes the captain's lobe with his teeth one last time before he pulls away, just as the jet touches ground. With an apologetic half-smile at the captain, he reattaches his helmet and barks into the comms, before switching into what sounds like playful banter with JARVIS, climbing over piles of rubble to walk towards the pickup team.

Leaning heavily against the brick behind him, legs weak, Steve's hand lingers in the air for just a moment, before it falls to his side, and he wishes he could've snatched a longer moment, still feeling the ghost of Tony's lips burning on his skin.

_. . ._

He is sketching the sweep of Tony's back again, the curve of skin at the crook of his elbow, the crease in his brow as he concentrates. His pencil flies across the pages of his sketchbook, eyes catching everything, capturing Tony's essence in graphite. His hand drags smudges of grey in its wake as he seals the image of him in the thick paper under his fingers.

Tony is chattering away to JARVIS, rotating blueprints in the air, a feat that never ceases to amaze the captain. He honestly loves watching Tony work, seeing his eyes glaze over with a bright film of concentration and wonder as he sits engrossed in his latest project, and a strange glitter that could well be mania. Of course, as the saying goes, genius and insanity often coincide, and Tony  _definitely_  has his mad scientist moments, perhaps more than most. His eyes shine as he builds, plans, and creates, and it really is like magic, Steve thinks, like alchemy, watching him conjure miracles from essentially nothing, pulling them out of thin air. The captain really does admire his genius. He can't help it.

And Steve smiles to himself, thinking of his idea, his little special something for that special date, ringed in red on the calendar in his bedside drawer. As he sketches he plans a hundred different things, and discards them just as quickly. It has to be special, it has to be different, and it has to be perfect. It has to be  _"them"_. He thinks picnic in the park, he thinks theatre, he thinks cruise, and then he absently thinks Coney Island… and his smile falters as he thinks of Bucky, pain flashing brief and sharp like a knife in his heart. He clenches his jaw and swallows, trying to calm the emotions the flash of memory brings on. He breathes slowly to calm himself, to bring himself back to the present day, to now.

He looks up and sees Tony shake his head at a schematic, before scrunching up the virtual blueprint and throwing it as a perfect three-pointer through the holographic basketball hoop on the far wall. A scoreboard flashes, lights and music pinging loudly. And  _yup, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto_.

Steve grins as Tony shouts "BOOYA!" and fist-pumps in victory, before turning his attention back to a different, more successful, schematic.

 _Dinner_ , Steve suddenly thinks, a little light bulb going off in his head.  _I'll make us dinner. Set it all up real nice, cook everything myself. I'll get wine, candles, flowers, the works. He's been so busy with work recently that we've barely had a second to ourselves… A simple romantic dinner would be perfect, and I still have a couple of weeks to get everything together…_

Excited, he starts, "Hey Ton-", but at exact that moment, Banner comes crashing through the door to the lab, frantically motioning for Tony to get up and follow him. He is grinning from ear to ear.

"Tony! Tony, you gotta come see this! I finally managed to isolate the signal and we've got a lock on their location," he claps his hands together and then spreads his arms wide in the air, laughing.

"We finally got 'em, Tony!"

And the billionaire drops everything instantly. He beams in response and high-fives the scientist, excitement shining in his eyes.

"Alright! Way to go, Bruce!" He claps a hand to the doctor's back, grinning, "What're we waiting for? Let's go bag 'n tag 'em!"

And the two of them stride down the corridor, a mad rush of scientific jargon firing back and forth between them.

Steve slumps back in his chair, pencil and sketchbook limp in his hands, feeling not unlike a forgotten toy. The lab is suddenly queerly silent as the door hisses shut behind the two scientists.

Steve discards the sketchbook despondently, and when his pencil clatters to the floor, he doesn't move to pick it up.

He rubs his eyes and sighs.

"So much for that," he mutters.

_. . ._

Two weeks later, the captain blows out the match he's holding and does a quick sweep of the room, straightening cutlery, re-polishing a glass, checking the red wine in the decanter, the pot bubbling on the hob, the dishes in the oven. He puts the card with Tony's name on it beside his place setting, and brushes his hands on the apron he is wearing, a huge smile on his face.

"Tonight's the night," he announces to the candlelit room, and wanders back into the kitchen, humming to himself.

_. . ._

The sound of the ocean echoes around the cove, the small beach within lit by moon and stars in a black sky without cloud. The sea crashes against the rocks, against the sand, and Steve digs his toes deep down into the cold, wet grains, not feeling his feet go numb, nor the wind whipping through his hair. It bites into his cheeks, and he watches the relentless waves rush at the shore, his knees pulled up under his chin, arms wrapped around them.

His fingers ache from clutching his legs so hard and the cold wind both, but he can't bring himself to move. There is a strange kind of peace here, and the endless beating of the sea against the shore has calmed the rage somewhat. But the sadness remains, because sadness is always harder to shift. Sadness takes more time.

Deep down, he doesn't even think he's surprised.

Why would Tony remember their anniversary, after all?

_. . ._

"Steve?"

He calls out through the house and is greeted with silence, broken only by the loud ticking of the clock in the front room.

"Hey, Rogers, where are you? What's –"

Tony steps into the dining room, the dining room that he never really uses because, honestly, who wants to eat alone at a twelve-seater table, and he stops dead.

He sees the candles, the silverware, Christ,  _the roses_ , and as the sound of him slapping a hand to his forehead echoes round the empty room, he groans and curses aloud at his own stupidity, and collapses into a chair, feeling like the biggest fool in the world as the realisation dawns on him.

And he remembers what day it is.

"Oh,  _fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,  _fuck_."

_. . ._

The awkward silence stretches on and on, and in the confined space of the Stark Industries jet, it is stifling and awful, hanging heavy in the air.

Tony walks over from the counter at the rear of the cabin and hands him a glass of water.

"Here."

Steve accepts the glass, and nods, "Thanks."

Tony smiles a vaguely strained smile, and goes back to the bar to get himself a drink; a whiskey no doubt, to counter the tension. Steve wishes he knew what to say.

After a few swallows of water, he notices a strange aftertaste, but thinks nothing of it, much more preoccupied with the fact that he can't think of a single thing to say to Tony to break the awkward silence.

He knows he should just  _tell him_  why he's not speaking to him properly, but it feels so silly, so childish, to just come out with it.  _Oh, yes, sorry Tony, but I've been in a horrible mood with you for days because you forgot about our anniversary meal, and I have clearly been dealing with this in the most mature way possible, by ignoring you and avoiding you. My name is Steve Rogers, and despite the fact that I am_ 90 years old _, I still have absolutely no idea how to deal with situations like these._

He feels like he's back in high school again, for God's sake, and he never could talk to the pretty girls.

But he's an adult now, (a staggering  _90 years old_ , though he's mentally still in his early twenties, if not  _younger_ , if this miserable situation is anything to go by) and besides, Tony is in a totally and paralysingly  _terrifyingly_ separate league to anyone he's ever been attracted to, before the war  _or_  since he'd woken up in this strange new world.

Sighing, Steve takes another sip of the drink in his hand and a sudden yawn surprises him, rudely escaping his lips. His brow wrinkles in confusion, because he shouldn't be tired. How can he be tired? He slept like a baby last night… So, why is he so sleepy all of a sudden? He blinks groggily into his glass of water, thinking he'd better put it down before he drops it. His tongue feels clumsy, and the familiar fog of sleep inexplicably begins to wrap itself around his limbs. It makes no sense for him to be falling asleep, none at all. Drowsy, he looks up to see Tony walking back towards him, and the words coming out of the billionaire's mouth are little more than an incomprehensible slur in Steve's ears.

And suddenly, his eyelids are just too heavy to keep open. The half-formed sentence on his tongue trails off into nonsense, and his eyes flutter shut.

The last thing he feels before sleep inexplicably claims him is Tony's hand on his own, and he blearily thinks to himself how wonderfully soft it is, and how he wishes he wasn't so awful at dealing with awkward romantic situations.

_. . ._

The loud blare of a car horn violently shakes him from his sleep.  
And the first thing he realises is that he can't see. He's been blindfolded.

His first instinct is panic; blind panic.  _Had he been kidnapped? Who is holding him captive? Where the hell is he?_  
As these thoughts grip him, he suddenly hears a voice in the space to his right, and he calls out.

" _Tony_?"

He hears steps, and then, beside him,

"Whoa, Steve, whoa, calm down," Tony's voice says, "It's me, you're fine, just  _breathe_. I'm here."

The captain's breathing is stilted and erratic as his heart races, and he has to gulp down huge lungfuls of air to calm himself. Then, as the panic subsides, he realises his hands aren't tied.

"Tony,  _what the hell is going on_?  _Why am I blindfolded_?" he demands, hands snapping up to his face to rip the blindfold off, but Tony makes an angry noise and grabs them before he can do it.

"Ah! Wait! Close your eyes before you take it off!"

Steve is utterly confused, head swimming, and he still feels horribly groggy.

"What? What is this, Tony? Are we still on the plane? Are we back in New York yet? Wait, is this some kind of training exercise SHIELD has sprung on us?"

"No, no, no. Steve, stop asking questions for like, two seconds, please."

He senses Tony get up, and the sound of his footsteps tells him that he's stopped behind him, as Tony says, "I'm gonna take this off now, but you have to keep your eyes  _closed_ , okay?"

Steve scoffs, "Tony, this is ridiculous, will you please tell me what the hell is going on here?"

"Will you just trust me for minute, Steve? I promise you it isn't anything weird. You're not in danger either, so please, you can relax."

He feels Tony's hands at the back of his head, untying the blindfold, despite the fact that he hasn't agreed to any of Tony's requests.  
He snorts, "Oh really? I have just woken up essentially blind, and I have no idea where I am. Would you be calm about that?"

Tony pauses, because that scenario sounds an awful lot like what happened to him in the desert. He has to give himself a little shake to dislodge the memories, and he pushes them back down and  _away_.

" _Please_  close your eyes, Steve," he asks, "I swear to you, on my  _life_ , that it isn't anything bad, I  _promise_."

Steve doesn't understand, but just as he is about to protest and pull off the blindfold, knot now loose, Tony stops his hand as it reaches up to his face, and says, a pleading note in his voice, "Steve. Trust me on this. Please."

The captain feels Tony's fingers tighten around his hand, holding it in mid-air, and he sighs. Really, he hasn't got a single God damn clue what is going on here, but, despite his confusion, despite his disorientation, and despite the fact they've barely spoken since the anniversary dinner fiasco, he trusts Tony, so somewhat reluctantly he says, "Okay."

Tony's hands now fully untie the knot in the blindfold, and the fabric slips off Steve's face.

"Eyes closed?" Tony asks.

Steve rolls his eyes behind closed eyelids, and says, "Yes, Tony, they're closed."

Then Steve hears a bizarre note of excitement creep into Tony's voice as he says, "Okay, good, I'm just gonna put my hands over your eyes to make sure you don't look without my permission, and we're gonna walk forward. Don't worry, I'll guide you-"

"You're gonna let me fall aren't you?" Steve asks, pointedly.

Tony makes a frustrated little sound, "No, Steve, I'm not gonna let you fall,  _d'you honestly think I'd_ \- whatever,  _never mind_ , just, please, trust me, okay?"

Steve scrunches his lips together and replies, " _Fine_."

They walk agonisingly slowly, with Tony giving Steve directions, as promised, except that they are terrible directions, really, because Steve keeps stubbing his toes on things.

The fifth time he does it, he bites back a colourful profanity, and growls " _Tony_ …"

The billionaire protests immediately, before the captain can say anything else, "Oh, come on, that was  _not_  my fault! Is it  _my_  fault you have massive feet?"  
Steve frowns under Tony's thumbs.

"Hey, I didn't  _use_  to have massive feet, you know, and yes, it  _is_ your fault, Tony, because you're supposed to be guiding me,  _I can't see_ ,  _remember_?"

"Yeah, I know, Steve, I know, and we're nearly there, and-  _hey!_   _No peeking!_ And _don't_ lie, _I can feel you blinking!_ "

Grumbling, Steve squeezes his eyes more tightly shut and keeps walking.

It feels like they stumble on like that for far too long, and Steve has to negotiate inclines, declines, and worst of all, stairs.

Around them he hears traffic, bustling crowds, and hushed silence alternately. Tony's hands are still over his eyes.

Steve sighs.  
"Tony, seriously, where are we going?"

The billionaire tuts theatrically, "Well, I can't just  _tell_  you, can I? Otherwise what would be the point of all this secrecy and suspense? You've made it this far, Steve, you can't ruin it now. It's a surprise, so just, go with it, okay?"

"Tony-"

"Seriously, shush, don't ask questions."

Steve makes an exasperated sound in his throat, hands groping blindly in the air in front of him as Tony steers him forward.

Then, the air is suddenly colder than before, and the captain shivers.

"Okay, Tony? Just a guess, but are we outside now? Because it's freezing. And I'm only wearing a cotton shirt…"

Tony's voice is close to his ear as he says, "Hey, don't worry about the cold, I brought you a jacket, it's fine."

So Steve just sighs again.

They take a few more steps and then the gentle press of Tony's hands over his eyes tells Steve to stop, before he says, "Whoa, whoa, here we go."

Steve comes to a halt, hands still stretched out in front of him, "What, are we here?"

He can hear the smile in Tony's voice as he replies, "Yeah. Yeah, we're here."

Steve raises his eyebrows under Tony's hands, "So can I open my eyes yet?"

"Not yet," he says, "just give me one more second!"

The billionaire releases his hold and Steve feels him leave his side, the temperature near him dropping abruptly as he moves away.

When he tries to open one eye just a little to look, Tony's disembodied voice chastises him, " _Hey, I saw that!_  Stop it! Keep them  _closed_ , Steve!"

He hears Tony scuffling around behind him, and what sounds like the clinking of glasses and a match being struck. He can smell the chemicals alight.

He wrinkles his nose at it, voice questioning, " _Tony_ …"

"It'll be worth it I promise you, just one more second!"

Steve sighs, not entirely sure whether he should be worried or not, because despite Tony's reassurances that everything is fine, the nerves in the pit of his stomach have been getting progressively worse the whole time he has been robbed of his sight, coiling agitatedly in his gut like snakes. The anticipation, the not knowing, as well as not being in control, is making Steve feel ever so slightly sick.

And then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the soft strains of a piano come gliding through the air somewhere in front of him, and he feels a light pressure at the small of his back. The heat of Tony's hand seeps through the fabric of his shirt, a balm against the cool air around him.

Tony's voice is soft and quiet in his ear, as he says, "Okay,  _now_ you can open your eyes."

So he does.

And what he sees takes his breath away.

"Oh,  _Tony_ …"

They're on a roof terrace, which explains the stairs, a wall of old white brick encircling them, and around it the lights of a city at night sparkle and hum, a dazzling glow against the darkness above. The moon hangs low in the sky, set in the barest wisps of frail cloud, and it casts pale silver light across the space before him. The still night air is tinged with cold, and perfumed with the gentle scent of delicate flowers.

In the middle of the terrace is a wrought iron table, with two chairs sat opposite each other. There are candles everywhere, flickering softly, casting shadows across every surface. The table is set for two, with polished silver domes over the plates, and laying on the crisp white cloth atop it, scattered all about with the cream petals of some strange flower, is a beautiful silver candelabra, hung with vines and cut glass, beside it crystal glasses, and nestled in a bed of ice, champagne. A white grand piano stands a little way behind, and the fingers of its accompanying pianist float over the ivory keys, a beautiful melody springing to life at his touch.

In the distance, Steve sees a huge metal structure he distantly recognises, lit up like starlight.

And it slowly dawns on him what he is looking at.

That is the Eiffel Tower.

Steve cannot find the words to express what he is thinking, what he is feeling, and he turns to Tony in stunned silence to find the billionaire smiling at him, watching his reaction.

"Do you like it?" He asks, very softly, and his eyes glitter in the candlelight.

Steve blinks slowly, and asks, in utter disbelief, "Tony, did you bring me to  _Paris_?"

And Tony looks at the floor, still smiling, and simply nods. Then he shrugs, as if it was nothing.

Steve stares at the scene in front of him, and it takes him a minute to reply, because he cannot believe his eyes.

"Is this real? Did I fall asleep on the plane back to New York or something?"

And now Tony shifts his weight from foot to foot, and says sheepishly, "Um, I  _may_  have had to slip a teeny tiny pinch of sleeping powder into your drink," he raises his hands in placation, "but not much, honestly!"

He smiles, apologetically and guiltily, before saying, "…just enough for you to, y'know, doze off, while we made a little detour- well, a  _large_ detour, actually …"

Steve raises his eyebrows in vaguely appalled horror.

"So what you're saying, Tony, is that you spiked my drink, knocked me out, and basically kidnapped me?" he says, folding his arms over his chest in mock disapproval.

But when he sees Tony's stricken face as the billionaire mistakes it for genuine anger, he puts his hands up, saying "No, Tony," and he can't help but laugh in utter incredulous disbelief at the whole situation, "No, I just, I honestly have no idea what to say. I mean, your  _methods_  are questionable, true, but, Jeez, this is so  _you_ , Tony, I swear to God you are clinically insane…"

The captain looks out into the glittering night, quiet for a long moment.

"I mean, I just…" he laughs softly, "This is just crazy. We're actually in Paris…"

After a moment, Tony sighs, a long exhalation of breath, and when Steve looks up to meet his gaze, his dark eyes are sincere.

"I know it's pretty ridiculous, Steve, but really, it was the very least I could do, after I messed up that beautiful dinner you planned for us back at my place in Malibu."

He fidgets, nervously shifting his weight to the other foot, and his voice is quiet.

"You worked so hard on that, and I wasn't even there to appreciate it, I mean..." He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, "I cannot believe I forgot. I was an absolute jerk, Steve. Missing that, forgetting it at all, I mean, that was… that was real shitty of me, and I wanted to, y'know, make it up to you, so, uh…"

The captain barks a laugh, an incredulous look on his face, and Tony seems vaguely alarmed until Steve shakes his head, smiling. With one hand on his waist, the other on his forehead, Steve asks,

"So you kidnapped me and flew me to Paris?"

And with a small lopsided smile, Tony just nods, looking genuinely embarrassed.

"Uh, yeah, I guess I did…"

And Steve has to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

"Well, what do you say to that? I mean, honestly…" he exhales, and rubs a hand over his bottom lip, coming to rest on his chin.

He looks out across the city again, at the distant horizon, the endless sky, the beautiful table laid in front of them, and then he looks at Tony, properly, and sighs.

With a smile that lights up his eyes, he says softly,

"Thank you, Tony."

And he sees the billionaire relax, the tension in his stance dissipating instantly in the wake of his smile. Tony grins, and gestures to the table.

"So, you hungry?"

Steve laughs, and nodding, admits, "Starving."

Tony makes to put a hand on his back to lead him to the table, and Steve stops him, palm on his chest. Confusion flickers across the billionaire's face before Steve shakes his head to calm the doubt he can see appearing there. He smooths Tony's lapels with his palms and laughs gently, feeling that familiar warmth blossom and spread through his chest as it only ever does when they are together like this. Then, he raises a hand to Tony's chin, and tips his head up, bathing his face in pale moonlight.

"Thank you, Tony," he smiles as he murmurs, "truly."

And soft as the music in the air around them, he steals a kiss under the stars.

_. . ._

"Ah,  _Tony_ …!"

Steve moans into the empty space above Tony's head as the billionaire pulls the tails of his shirt out of the back of his jeans and slips his hands down the small of his back, sliding under his belt, dragging his nails over the skin there to leave red welts rising in their wake. His lips graze the soft curve of Steve's neck and his tongue laps at the hollow of his throat, feeling the hum vibrating beneath it as a low moan escapes the captain's mouth.

The elevator slides gently upwards through the building towards the penthouse as Steve's fingers find purchase in the folds of Tony's dinner jacket, as Tony's hands under Steve's jeans pull their hips flush together, and his knee nudges Steve's legs apart, before he pushes hard up against him, and Steve sucks in a ragged breath at the perfect friction just  _there_.

With 82 floors still to go, and with the elevator moving at such a slow pace, they have all the time in the world, and Tony is taking full advantage of that.

As the thirty-seventh floor glides by, Steve's hand slams against the glass wall on his left, hand print forming around his hot skin, a stencil in condensation. Tony's breath leaves a mist on the pane behind the captain's head as he dips his own to sink his teeth into the smooth sweep between Steve's neck and shoulder, pushing him roughly up against the wall behind him again, one hand slowly creeping round the captain's right hip, thumb brushing along the hard line of his pelvis, down under the waistband of his jeans.  
The hitch in the captain's breath against his ear as his fingers slide lower sends shivers racing across Tony's whole body, trickling over him like cold water, raising goose bumps on his arms.

" _Tony_ ,  _ah_ , how long 'til… we…" Steve pants against his cheek.

"Like, another 50 floors, Steve, shhh…" Tony murmurs into the captain's ear, and he barely brushes his lips against Steve's before the captain's fingers tangle roughly in his hair, pulling him down against his mouth, and the subsequent sharp twinge of pain only heightens the sensations burning under his skin, feeding the fire in his belly. Tony groans against Steve's searching mouth, tongue hot and greedy upon his own, and as his hand pauses for the scantest second inside the captain's jeans, Steve whimpers in protest against his lips. Tony smiles wickedly into the kiss at that, and simply stops, holding his hand deliberately still, teasing, delaying, cruelly prolonging the agony of the denial his stayed hand promises.

Then, just as the captain pulls his head back, frustrated at the disruption, Tony lets his fingers resume their advance, edging closer, creeping along Steve's hot skin, flushed and burning with need, and he moves ever so slowly,  _too_  slowly, and Steve moans " _Please…_ ", the teasing suspense delicious to the point of torture.

The captain lowers his gaze, breath hot and ragged, and as Tony drags his eyes up to meet Steve's, finding the pupils dilated and dark, gaze glazed and pleading, full of something jarringly primal, the captain breathes, " _Don't make me wait anymore_."

And Tony has to bite his lip and  _breathe_ to stop himself ripping through the fabric of Steve's jeans and boxers both.

"When we get upstairs…" he mutters through gritted teeth.

And as his fingers sink further and further down, Steve just nods, words failing him as his breath catches in his throat, and he  _whimpers_  at the contact, eyelids sliding shut as Tony's fingers  _finally_  find him, and he exhales in a rush, voice disintegrating into a low groan, and Tony watches his face spasm as his skin slides under his fingers, and it is hypnotic, the captain's mouth contorting, lips catching in his teeth and being released, bitten red, as he moans beneath Tony's hand.

And then Steve actually  _bucks_  against him, panting, as he wills Tony further. His hand snaking round to snare the belt loops of Tony's slacks, he brings their hips into sudden stunning contact, and Tony nearly cries out as the captain starts to rock beneath him; drowning in the pressure, the intoxicating heat, and the friction of that slow rolling grind, a moan shudders through them both. Curling his other hand up over the exposed skin of Steve's chest, shirt unbuttoned in earlier efforts, Tony rubs his thumb across the base of the captain's neck, exerting just enough pressure to hear Steve's breath catch beneath his hand, and then his fingers are caught in the captain's hair, pulling his head back, and Tony leans in, aching, mouth on his skin, groaning into the shell of his ear as his teeth pull at the lobe, his breath hot on the tender hollow beneath it, and he feels Steve shudder against him, lips and hands both, every second of the slow torture pushing him closer to the edge.

And the captain's hands tighten on the front of his shirt, and Tony hears something tear, buttons springing free to ricochet against the glass of the elevator, as Steve's voice breaks, "Oh, God,  _Tony_ …!" and then -

_Ding._

"Floor… ninety… two…" says a loud electronic voice, and the two freeze as they hear the elevator doors slide open.

Slowly, Tony looks over his left shoulder, and he can  _feel_ the heat of Steve's blush against his cheek as he turns his head.

Eyes wide, a small elderly man blinks at the scene that has appeared before him.

He coughs quietly, and says, in a controlled voice, "Oh my… Terribly sorry, I appear to have pressed the wrong button. Are you gentlemen going down?"

Tony barks an incredulous laugh, and cocks his head to one side as he answers,

"In a manner of speaking…? But no, sorry, old timer, you'll have to catch the next one."

And with his left hand remaining in place inside Steve's jeans, the captain still rigid with shock, Tony releases his hold on Steve's hair, and jabs his right index finger against a button, giving a dismissive wave as the doors slide mercifully shut behind him, the old man's astonished face disappearing from sight.

"Doors… closing…"

Tony turns back to the captain, whose horrified eyes flick down to Tony's hand and back up to his face again, words escaping him.

And the billionaire simply smirks and raises his eyebrows, his other hand now curling tight around Steve's collar, pulling the captain's face closer to murmur against his lips, full and red from Tony's stubble and rough treatment.

"Now, where were we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an alternative title for this was Personne Que Nous (Nobody But Us) but i decided that i liked the actual title better :)
> 
> clairebearer suggested Midnight In Paris, which could have been perfect, but i didn't want to ruin the reveal too soon!
> 
> written to the sultry sounds of fun.'s new album, Some Nights.


	14. Coming Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh smutsmutsmut! /does the smut dance!  
> here AT LAST is some slashy smutty PWP goodness, because damnit it had to happen, i mean come on, it's PARIS for chrissake! ;)

. . .

The elevator doors slide open and the two men all but fall into the suite. It's like a strange backwards dance, both shedding clothes like snakeskin, hands everywhere, and as the doors glide shut, the sliver of light shrinks to nothing, and the elevator sinks back into the depths of the building. The hushed glow of the moon in the sky above shines diffused through huge windows that curve along the walls, muted by thick curtains and plush red carpet.

Various items of furniture scrape against their knees and hips as they stumble backwards towards the bedroom, drawing vague sounds of pain from both of them as elbows meet sharp edges, and Tony hurriedly discards his jacket, instantly forgotten, as his hands busy themselves with the remaining buttons of Steve's shirt.

He backs him roughly into a wall, mouth hot on Steve's own as he slips his hands inside the captain's shirt, letting them roam over his smooth torso, muscles hard under the skin, the captain's ragged breath hot against his ear. Steve's hands fumble at his own belt, the buttons of his jeans, and Tony pushes them away, looking up at him with dark eyes.

"Let me."

Steve can only nod, and Tony's fingers scrabble at belt buckle and buttons, undoing them impatiently,  _one, two, three_.

The captain feels a change in pressure at his waist with the third, and as the cool air touches his skin it raises goose bumps on the lowest curve of his stomach, where Tony's hand is wasting no time crawling back under the band of his jeans, making his breath stop in his throat.

As Tony's hand resumes its slow, steady stroke, Steve groans Tony's name into his neck, hovering back on the brink in no time at all under his fingers.

Then the captain pushes forward and rolls Tony to the side, fingers digging deep into the fabric of the billionaire's shirt as he presses him up against the wall in turn. There is a thud and a crack as a tall potted plant meets its untimely demise in the process, and Tony's heels crunch on the broken ceramic as he presses his thigh up between the captain's parted legs again, and he pulls the captain's hips down against him, drawing another ragged gasp from the captain's mouth that he bites back with a whimper.

Tony watches the deep blush creeping across Steve's cheek, and he wants to see more of it, wants to see it crawl along his pale skin, across every inch of him, and he murmurs his name, teasing it out, and the captain shudders at the sound and Tony's fingers on him both, and suddenly, all Tony wants to see is Steve come apart in his hands.

So he ups the pace.

And the captain slams his hands either side of Tony's head, moaning "Tony… I …I can't  _stand_ …  _I_ -!" as his legs threaten to give way beneath him.

Tony lets Steve sink to his knees. He kneels down to meet him, hands on his face now, pulling their mouths together, lips against lips like bands of soft, hot velvet. He drags himself away to stare into those pleading, aching pools of blue, and a familiar heat curls and licks in his belly.

Tony grabs a handful of the captain's hair, the other hand at the curve of his waist, and he hears Steve gasp as he pulls him hard against him, feels his back arching, his hands clutching at his shirt as their bodies press closer.

His own hand slides back down the captain's body, lower and lower, waist to hip and further, until he has him, and Steve moans, rolling into his grip, using him, as the twisting heat climbs higher and higher, the rush building, and before the captain can utter a word of warning, that white-hot shudder rolls through him like a tidal wave, and he cries out.

He sinks forward, elbows bent, and collapses down against Tony, bones jelly, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath.

The captain makes a soft noise as Tony gently takes his hand away, but when he raises his head to look at him, Steve's eyes widen in horror as he sees Tony tentatively lick his wet fingers.

" _Tony_ ,  _what the hell are you_ -!"

And Tony makes a face, feigning pensiveness, then runs his tongue over his lip, smirking.

"What? Haven't you always wondered what it tastes like? Honestly, Steve, it's not as bad as you'd think."

Mute, Steve looks absolutely horrified, then Tony leans forward, and in the dazed aftermath of climax, transfixed by the strange pearlescent sheen still clinging to the billionaire's lips, the hypnotic rise and fall of his chest, the captain abruptly realises that Tony's other hand has surreptitiously crept back down past his stomach. He makes a strangled sound of protest, and abruptly, Tony's hand stops.

There is a second of shocked silence, before Tony blinks, looking down, and a short burst of laughter escapes him.

Because he can feel and see the captain already stirring again in his hand.

And he grins wickedly as he says, eyebrow raised, "Another side-effect of the serum …?"

Steve's hands scrabble at Tony's, "Tony,  _wait_ , you  _can't_ -! I haven't got rid of the…!"

"Shut up, Steve," Tony purrs.

One hand on the captain's chest, Tony shoves him backwards, and Steve lands on his back with a thud, spread-eagled on the plush carpet.

He lies panting, propped on his elbows with his jeans undone and shirt pulled open, eyes wide. Tony's own devour the sight and his mouth curves into an appreciative smile as he whistles and murmurs, " _What a view_ …"

Then he shakes his head, tutting, "But these just  _have_  to go…" he mutters, and pulls off the captain's shoes, then his socks, discarding them carelessly over a shoulder. Then he runs his fingers lightly along the bare sole of his foot, asking "Ticklish, captain?", and laughing when Steve yelps and wriggles at the sensation.

Then he pulls off his own shoes, and leaning down on all fours, slowly crawls forward, up over the captain's legs.

Steve's chest is heaving as he tries to breathe but it comes too short, "Tony, wai-"

Tony cuts him off mid-protest.

"Steve? Shut up."

The look he gives him, sprawled on the floor in the pale moonlight, is steady, hungry, dark and predatory. The only thing Steve can read in those deep brown eyes is pure, unbridled desire, and though the intensity of it sends a sudden thrill of fear skittering down his spine, he can feel the familiar tendrils of lust creeping slowly across his skin again, and he is utterly powerless to resist.

He doesn't want to.

Eyes smiling, the billionaire's fingers slide along the seam on the inside of Steve's thigh, and the captain sucks in a breath at the pressure crawling closer to the buttons of his jeans again.

On his knees, Tony leans forward, sliding his arms under the captain's open legs to curl up over the belt loose at his waist, thumbs brushing the taut muscle of his stomach, before pressing down, fingers exerting just enough pressure to hold him there.

Steve's eyes flicker from Tony's eyes to himself, exposed, and against his flushed skin, Tony's fingers are faintly cold from saliva and Steve's own come. He tenses as he watches Tony lower his head towards him, and the billionaire feels the muscles tighten under his hands.

"Tony, are you… are you sure?" Steve whispers, breath rushed.

And the billionaire pauses, hesitating, "Well, it's not like I've done this before, so if, y'know…"

He trails off, and Steve gulps.

"You know I haven't either, Tony," he says quietly.

And Tony just nods.

The captain's breath comes in shorter and shorter gasps as he watches Tony lean lower, and he abruptly stifles a shuddering moan with one hand as Tony's lips come into sudden delicious contact with his own hot skin, the other hand curling against the base of the billionaire's neck.

And Tony thinks of every trick that's ever surprised him, and, relentlessly, checks off every one. It doesn't take him long to find the captain's sweet spots, which he proceeds to ruthlessly abuse. Before long, the captain is whimpering under his mouth, fingers pawing at his neck and shoulders, clutching desperately at his skin with the onslaught of sensations woken by his tongue and lips around him.

Steve sucks in a breath as Tony runs his tongue along him and groans as his lips seal back into a ring of hot, wet pressure. He tries to roll his hips, bucking greedily into Tony's mouth, but thumbs press harder down against his stomach, fingers digging into his skin to stop him, as the billionaire hums in protest.

But the vibration only makes the captain moan louder, and tangling his fingers in Tony's hair, he pulls his head down harder onto him.

Tony growls against him and pulls free, a string of saliva glistening between tongue and tip.

" _Jesus_ , Steve, what are you trying to do, choke me?" he coughs.

The captain is breathing heavily, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and Tony suddenly realises that he's trying very,  _very_ hard to control himself.

"I'm sorry I just… I can't… it's too-" Steve breathes, teetering on the edge of that all-consuming wave, and he brings both hands up to cover his eyes, exhaling slowly to calm his ragged breathing and slow the release of pressure he can feel building inside him.

On his knees, Tony rubs his lip with a thumb, trailing moisture, and murmurs, "Then, uh, can we…"

He trails off again. Steve looks at him from under a hand and Tony vaguely motions to himself.

Then he shrugs.

"My knees are kinda tired," he says apologetically, with the faintest hint of a mischievous grin.

A quirk of a smile flickers across the captain's own lips and he nods. He leans up, and Tony's eyes follow him, trained on his mouth as he watches him say "So do you, uh… would you… the bed? Perhaps?"

Tony nods, and sees hesitation flit suddenly across Steve's face, apprehension in his eyes again. So as the captain makes to stand, awkwardly at that, Tony stops him, hand on his forearm, and pulls his face close, to brush their lips ever so lightly together, a gentle kiss to reassure him.

He is surprised when Steve fiercely returns it, seizing on the encouragement, eager for the assurance that this is okay, that neither of them really know what they're doing, and that he isn't the only one with no experience and absolutely no idea what to do.

Their lips part and meet again, soft and hard all at once, over and over, and with each kiss the hesitation ebbs a little more.

"Should we…?" the captain finally murmurs against Tony's mouth, and feels him breathe "Yeah…" in response.

Hands come up to pull at the collar of Steve's open shirt, and Tony drags him upwards, lips still crushed together, steering him stiltedly towards the bed.

They nearly trip as their feet tangle, and suddenly they're both laughing, Tony's hands finally slipping the captain's shirt from his shoulders, letting the fabric fall rustling to the floor. His fingertips trail from shoulder to stomach, ghosting over smooth skin, fire rising in their wake, a slow, deep burn, and the captain tips Tony's head up to capture his lips again, tongue pressing gently against the billionaire's own, a silent demand in that soft pressure. Then, his fingers slip the buttons of Tony's shirt free and he pushes the fabric aside, uncovering the arc reactor.

And Steve stops. Then, slowly, gently, he brushes his thumb across the reactor's glassy surface, glowing softly in the dim light.

Tinged with its azure glow, Steve's eyes look an even deeper blue, the two shades combining in semblance of the ocean, rippling almost as the light flickers, and Tony gazes, transfixed. Then, the captain runs a single finger around the edge of the device in the centre of his chest.

The metal is warm, set in Tony's flushed skin, and Steve contemplates it silently, the beautiful, terrible privilege that he carries with him always.

"It's beautiful, Tony," he finds himself murmuring, and his eyes snap up in panic as he realises the words that have escaped his mouth.

But they find Tony's, and his brown pupils are calm.

Tony smiles, breathing a soft laugh through his nose, as he says quietly,

"Y'know, if it was anyone other than you saying that, I wouldn't believe them."

He places his right hand over Steve's own, and entwines his fingers with the captain's. Then, slowly, he tilts the captain's face to his, and presses a kiss to his lips.

Tony smiles as Steve returns it, and the captain wraps his arms around Tony's waist, abruptly pulling him closer. The naked skin of their stomachs comes into sudden contact and both draw in a sharp gasp, stealing the breath from each other's mouths, laughing.

Then, Steve pulls away just slightly and releases his grip on Tony's back.

Confusion flits across the billionaire's face before sudden shock registers when Steve grins and shoves him backwards, knocking him off his feet and sending him sprawling across the bed with an undignified " _UNF_ ".

" _Steve_ -" he growls, and the captain just smiles,

"Quiet, Tony."

And he can do nothing but stare, mesmerised, as he watches Steve pull his belt looser, and let his jeans slide agonisingly slowly over his hips to the floor, exposed skin pale in the moonlight.

"Tony?" Steve murmurs after a moment of silence, "you do realise your mouth is open?"

Nodding, Tony's eyes drink in the sight before him as the captain smiles, weight on one foot as he flicks his jeans to one side, and asks, "Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to stare?"

Tony shakes his head, still unabashedly staring, "Uh, no, can't say that she did, actually… can you just, come here, please? I need to, uh, get my hands on you again."

And now Steve laughs, leaning on the bed with one knee, then, mimicking Tony's earlier advance, slowly creeps up the bed to where Tony lies half-naked in the pillows, stopping just an inch above his face. He nudges his nose to Tony's, and then, pressing kisses to his throat, moving softly up his neck, his lips pause by the billionaire's ear, breath tickling, and he whispers, " _My turn_."

He steals a kiss, hot and rushed, before breaking free to draw back towards Tony's feet, while Tony attempts to form a coherent protest, forgetting each new objection as quickly as the last as he watches Steve slide down his body.

The captain unbuttons Tony's slacks and pulls them off far too slowly, teasing, before discarding them in a heap on the floor. Tony's breath catches in his throat as Steve holds his gaze all the while.

"Steve, are you-?" he murmurs.

And the captain silences him with a look, so Tony closes his mouth, lips pressed together in toe-curling anticipation, and just nods.

Steve adjusts to lie on his stomach.

Tony feels his pulse race faster and faster as he watches the captain dip his head, and then Steve's breath is hot against his stomach, lips pressing kisses to his flushed skin, trailing over his hips to his thighs, and the captain's fingers are under the soft fabric of his boxers, slowly peeling them down.

He watches Steve slip them over his legs, and he hurriedly kicks them free, before the captain's fingers slide back up along the inside of his thighs, hot lines of pressure, and Tony feels himself shudder when they meet on his naked flesh, a low moan rising in his throat.

"Oh  _fuck_ ,  _Steve_ -!"

And the moan bleeds into a shout as the captain's lips touch his skin at last, warm, wet tongue on the length of him, strokes of his hand accompanying it with perfect pressure.

Tony's hands clutch the sheets and Steve's fingers press against his hip, one hand pinning him to the bed with no effort at all. As Tony realises with a heady rush that the grip will leave bruises in the morning, the pressure encircling him changes deliciously and drags a long shuddering breath from his lips.

_By God, does the captain learn quickly._

Knees bent either side of Steve's head, Tony's toes curl in the sheets as he tries not the buck into the captain's wet mouth as Steve had done just before, but he can't stop himself rocking ever so slightly, and when the captain doesn't stop him, he rubs his fingers slowly down the back of Steve's neck, and the pressure makes the captain hum against him. He feels Steve smile, and Tony groans, dropping his head back as hands and tongue overwhelm him.

He opens his eyes again, head tilted down, and watches, breath ragged. Steve's eyes are closed, half-lidded, and Tony suddenly sees the captain's other hand steadily working his own length between his legs.

Tony growls and pulls at Steve's hair, dragging the captain's head up, off of him.

Steve's eyes are confused as he runs his tongue over his lips, and even that small motion sets Tony's pulse to violent static.

"Was I doing it wrong, Tony? I'm sorry, I can-"

Tony cuts him off, "No, Steve, Jesus,  _no_. You were,  _my God_ \- no, that's not it, come here," he urges, as Steve looks at him, "Just come up here."

Hand at the back of his head, Tony all but pulls Steve up onto him, and when their bodies come flush, skin on naked skin, they draw a ragged breath together.

Both panting, Steve looks up at Tony, eyes lost, and the billionaire captures his lips in a kiss, soft and deep, and with slow, creeping fingers, answers his unspoken question by taking him in his hand again. Steve whimpers against his mouth, and Tony silences what was probably a protest with his tongue, before he pulls away, breathing heavily.

Chests heaving, the captain laid across him, Tony grips his shoulder, and says, "Together?"

Understanding, Steve nods, and fingers curled over the headboard, he pulls up to sit astride the billionaire.

" _Together_ ," he breathes, and his eyes never leave Tony's as he takes him in his hand again, and slides his closed fingers up and down the length of him. Tony groans, lip caught between his teeth at the captain's grip.

Skin hot and glazed with sweat, Steve rocks his hips against him as their hands move in time. The captain sighs, breath ragged, and dips his head to the curve of Tony's neck, panting at the relentless pressure of the man's fingers on him, slow at first, waves of heat threatening to drag him under all too soon.

His head spins at the onslaught of sensation as Tony suddenly moves underneath him, rolling him onto his back, and commands, " _Wrap your legs around me_ ". He obeys, and when Tony rocks against him, hand pulling him further towards oblivion, Steve can only whimper, panting, impatient.

Their eyes meet, and Steve abruptly unhooks his legs and rolls, pushing Tony back down against the bed, hand firmly on his chest, pinning him against the tangled sheets. The billionaire's own hand snakes up around the captain's waist to drag fingers from the small of his back to the soft flesh of his inner thigh, and he savours the catch in Steve's breath as he does, before pressing his thumb harder down, kneading in small, tight circles there. Steve's dark eyes flutter shut and he bites back a moan, Tony's name a hot rush on his lips. He leans down suddenly, and Tony's hand tangles in his hair, ensnaring, capturing his mouth, and they buck against each other, the friction burning on their skin, breath ragged, pulse a roar in their ears, and the captain moans hungrily against Tony's tongue. He pants, wanton, at Tony's ear, his teeth catching on the soft curve of his neck, and Tony's inhaled breath is a hiss as the sharp pain combines with the maddening, spiralling pleasure, and he only holds the captain tighter, feeling the muscles tense and flex beneath his hands.

The rhythm builds to a sudden shuddering apex and Tony, pinned under Steve's firm hand, sees the captain's mouth contort in a silent, desperate "o" as the heat consumes him, and capturing his burning, pleading gaze, he growls " _Come, Steve_ ".

And as he watches the captain throw his head back with a choked shout, spasming under his grip, he feels his own climax come rushing, violent, blinding and drowning him, pinpoints of light behind his eyes, and he crushes Steve to him as it swallows them both. A long low groan escapes his lips, and the captain's eyes are screwed tightly shut as he moans in kind, " _TONY_ -!"

Steve collapses down against his skin, panting and weak, and there is a hot wetness between them, slick against their bellies.

Tony's hands find themselves in Steve's hair again, now a golden tangle, strands damp against his burning forehead, and he presses a soft kiss to his skin, the captain humming drowsily under his touch as sleep's arms reach up to claim him.

 _Not bad, Captain_ , Tony thinks to himself, a smile curving across his lips, and arms still tight around Steve, he leans back, pulling him with him, and settles into the pillows. He rolls the captain to lie beside him, and brushes a sweat-soaked lock of hair from his eyes as they flutter shut.

"Goodnight, Steve," Tony murmurs, and when the captain responds, "G'night, Tony…" he smiles, and draws the sheets up over the captain's sleeping form, before letting his own eyes slide blissfully shut.

. . .

A jarring ringtone startles Steve from his sleep, and groggily, he fumbles in the sheets for the phone.

Tony's hand catches his just as he finds the flashing, vibrating mobile, and the billionaire raises one sleepy eyebrow from where his head is buried in the covers, voice rasping, "I got this, go back to sleep."

Steve nods, head sinking gratefully back into the pillows, and Tony rolls onto his back to answer the call. He doesn't need to check the Caller ID to know it's headquarters.

"Yup?"

An irritated voice asks, "Tony?"

He rubs his hand roughly over his face in a vague attempt to be awake enough to deal with this phone call.

"Good morning, Barton."

The archer snorts, "Tony, for normal people, it is  _not_  morning. It's 3:30 in the afternoon."

"Did you call me just to tell me what time it is?" Tony yawns, "Oh Barton, whatever would I do without you?"

He sees Steve pull a pillow over his head, motioning for him to shut up,

"Now, much as I love the sultry sound of your voice in the morning-"

"Afternoon," Barton corrects.

"Whatever- can I go back to sleep please?"

"No, actually, you can't," the archer responds, irritated, "Where are you?"

Tony rolls his eyes.

"Didn't you guys have tracking devices implanted in our butts or something for situations like this? Or is that just a movie thing … Look, Barton? We're in Paris."

There is stunned silence, then,

"What the- Why the hell are you in Paris, Tony? And who is 'we'? Wait, are you with Steve?"

Tony looks over to see the captain raising an eyebrow at him through the heap of pillows around his head. The billionaire grins, "Sure am."

"Actually," he continues, "I've been spending some 'quality time' with the Capsicle."

Steve looks at him, confused, and Tony can hear the sarcasm dripping in Barton's voice as he says, clearly unimpressed, "Oh yeah? And what is that, Tony, a new nickname? Are you trying to be funny again?"

Tony smiles at Steve as he answers.

"You're sharp, Barton, I'm sure you can probably guess what it's a nickname for, and oh, by the way, in case you were wondering, which you probably weren't, but I'm gonna tell you anyway …"

He pauses for effect.

And Steve's eyes go wide as he says,

"I can confirm that yes, he does, in fact, taste like freedom."

Tony hears Clint's face crumple in horror and a disgusted " _EURGH_!" rings through the speaker, followed by a string of colourful profanities, before the billionaire flips the phone closed and throws it clear across the room.

He buries his head deep back into the sheets, laughing at the appalled look on Steve's face, and shrugging, says,

"S'what you get for sticking your nose in other people's business! I'd like to see how he explains  _that_  one to Fury."

And Steve groans and hits him with a pillow as he laughs into the mattress.


	15. Houston, We Have A Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darlings! dissertation is still not done (/sobs) but i'm getting there. i've also been fighting writer's block so there you have it! but here at last is an update! and finally, something resembling plot!? GASP. only took me 14 goddamn chapter to get here, huh? :P enjoy!

 

* * *

"Would one of you mind telling me where you two skipped off to last night? What was so important that you deliberately missed a briefing this morning? Or do I not want to know the answer to that?"

Steve keeps his mouth shut but raises his eyebrows at Tony, stood unusually quiet beside him, and waits for his customary smart-ass response. He is almost disappointed when Tony, shockingly, chooses to keep his mouth shut.

The director turns from surveying the bridge and fixes the two with a cold glare, "I'll take your silence as a yes."

Steve risks a glance at Tony, who resolutely avoids his gaze, as Fury stalks towards them.

"Regardless of the fact that we have trackers on both of you so we know exactly where you are  _at all times_ ," and both men frown at the comment before Fury carries on, "I was advised by the rest of the team that you were simply "held up" en route and that there was no cause for concern."

Tony is now smiling at Fury as if he has nothing to hide, despite his dull rage at being surreptitiously  _tracked_.  
 _That little bug was getting ripped out later._

Coming to a halt opposite them, Fury adds, "You should be very,  _very_ grateful I didn't send anyone to come collect you."

Tony folds his arms and affects a profoundly bored expression. Steve looks at the floor.

"Agent Barton informed me of your geographic location when you failed to materialise at the rendezvous point last night," the director continues, moving to rest his palms on the round table separating them, "Care to elaborate why you were in  _Paris_ , gentlemen? Last time I checked, flying from California to the East Coast doesn't require a trans-Atlantic detour."

Steve opens his mouth to answer and Tony waves a hand to deter him; doubtless any attempt on the captain's part to bare-faced lie to a superior would be utterly transparent. And if it was,  _which it would be_ , it would probably lead to some very  _uncomfortable_  questions, because Fury still wasn't exactly clued-in on their romantic situation. Even after a few months, they'd not quite got round to broaching the subject, because frankly, when is the "right time" to announce your highly unconventional relationship (by "traditional" standards) to your superspy boss?

"Actually, that was my call," Tony answers smoothly, if not a little too quickly, and Steve tries not to sag in relief that he isn't the one having to answer.

"I wanted to drop in at the Paris branch, check up on some upcoming company changes," Tony says.

Steve keeps his mouth closed and tries not to catch the director's eye as Tony speaks.

Fury raises an eyebrow, "Isn't that Miss Potts' job now, Stark? I seem to recall you handing over the reins some time ago. Unless of course you felt the inexplicable urge to meddle in company affairs again, just for old times' sake?"

Tony smiles widely, "For the record, can I just state that I wasn't trying to throw off her groove or anything like that? I know that  _technically_  it's none of my business, but yeah, I  _was_  checking up on the branch, because hey, it's still  _my_  company."

"What can I say," he shrugs, calm, "I was curious. So sue me."

"That's not likely to be the course of action Miss Potts takes, Stark, but I can't imagine she'll be all too pleased to hear that you've been getting involved in company matters for no discernibly good reason," Fury counters, before pointedly adding, " _Again_."

If the final comment stung, Tony doesn't show it. Instead, the billionaire just shrugs, "If Pepper has a problem with it, I'm pretty sure I'll hear about it sooner rather than later. Frankly, I'm fairly certain I would've heard about it already if it actually  _was_  an issue. Because let's be honest, Pepper isn't exactly shy about chewing me out. She doesn't usually try to avoid hurting my feelings if it's business-related. She's sensible like that. Kinda why I chose her to be my successor. She doesn't put up with my bullshit."

Fury fixes him with a steady gaze for a moment or two and Tony feels Steve start to fidget beside him. He hopes that the captain can hold out for just a minute longer without blurting out anything  _untoward_.

"We done here?" Tony asks, feeling uncomfortable with what is essentially squaring up to the director.

Fury considers them both for a moment more, arms folded over his chest, and just as the silence reaches that  _particularly_  awkward length, he uncrosses his arms and nods, then leans on the table again.

"Yeah, we're done. But before you two go scuttling off to your quarters, let me bring you up to speed on what you missed this morning."

He barks an order over his shoulder and Agent Hill pulls up a hologram over the table.

Both men frown as the footage plays out, and more images appear.

"Well that's something you don't see every day…" Tony says slowly.

Steve leans forward as he looks, finally breaking his silence to ask, "Sir, what in the seven hells is that?"

The hologram rotates slowly in front of them, and Fury straightens as he explains.

"That, gentlemen, is our latest problem. A team encountered it on routine training exercises a couple of nights ago. We aren't sure yet, but depending on what happens next? It may just be the latest in an increasingly colourful list of threats to the planet's safety."

"So we're at "threat to humanity" level again, huh? Didn't think the quiet spell would last," Tony mutters, mostly to himself.

That familiar wrinkle has settled in the captain's forehead as he scans the data before him, "Has SHIELD ever encountered anything like this before?"

Fury shakes his head, "Negative. First of its kind, or so we think. The first team we sent in to investigate were obliterated."

Steve's head snaps up, eyes wide, and Fury nods.

"Yes, captain. Wiped out. Gone."

"What, are you saying this thing  _ate them_  or something?" Tony scoffs, motioning at the footage, and Fury shoots him a look.

"Why, that sound completely implausible to you, Stark? After everything you've seen?"

Tony makes a face, but doesn't argue. Steve's eyes are only glazed for a moment as the shock subsides, giving way to familiar tactics and resolution planning, to strategy, to search and rescue. But Fury isn't finished.

"And that's not even the best part," he continues, tapping the trackpad at his hip.

"The best part?" Steve echoes, and the director nods.

"The best part is that their sub-dermal trackers aren't showing them as deceased," he brings up new images with a flick of his fingers, "It's not that their hearts aren't beating, that their brains have stopped functioning. It's that their bodies are gone."

"You mean disintegrated?" Tony asks, studying the rotating images, archived graphs recording the teams' various bodily functions and individual GPS monitor readings relayed by the team's trackers.

"No, Stark, I mean gone," Fury responds. Then he turns to face him dead-on.

"As in they are no longer present  _on this plane of existence_. Bodies, bones, dust, sub atomic particles, nothing. What they physically were has ceased to be."

He leans down, knuckles against the table, "So in answer to your earlier question, Stark, considering we're now two teams down without a recognisable trace of them anywhere on the planet? Yes, we are safely on our way to "threat to humanity" level. Again."

Confusion flickers across Steve's face before it passes with a shake of his head, "Sir, I don't understand."

"Neither do we, captain," Fury replies heavily, "and that's why-"

"Wait, wait, how do you know they are no longer "on this plane of existence"?" Tony asks, making the quotation marks in the air, his thought processes suddenly catching up with his hearing.

Fury looks at him, "Because Banner rigged up some crazy hocus-pocus apparatus with the toys you leant him and told me so, that's how," comes the acerbic response, "That and Thor seconded the opinion. And I don't know about you, but I'm willing to take a demi-god's word on something like that. Planes of existence aren't exactly my forte."

Tony holds up a hand, "No, wait a minute, hold on. So, these teams just disappeared into thin air? Like, vanished? Poof? And, what, you want us to find them?"

The director nods, "Obviously-"

Tony shakes his head, "Fury, first, if their trackers are out of commission, which," he motions at the hologram, " _obviously_  they are, and second, even if they weren't, how in the hell are we supposed to track them  _across dimensions_? Because that's what it sounds like you're asking us to do."

Fury crosses his arms again, "That's correct, Stark, and that's also why we called  _you_ in, specifically. Banner needs another brain on this one, and I'll be damned if I can think of someone better than you to try and find a way to get those trackers back in range."

"Back in range? Fury, you just said that they  _don't exist on this plane anymore_. That takes more than someone like me can-" Tony cuts himself off, "That's less engineer, more theoretical physicist. So unless you want me to  _magically_  learn everything that someone like Selvig has had to dedicate practically his entire  _life_  to to understand-" Tony pauses, "Speaking of which, have you even contacted him? Surely he's the go-to guy for dimensional…" he waves his hand in the air, unable to think of the right word, "whatevers?"

"Selvig has already given his opinion on the matter, Stark," Fury answers, "And he's got nothing for us. All he could tell us was that we were probably looking at inter-dimensional travel."

"Well, in case it slipped your mind? We don't exactly  _have_  the secrets to  _inter-dimensional travel_  at this point," Tony says, exasperated, "Thor's the only one who seems to know anything about it, and that is a  _very_  basic knowledge at best, because if you hadn't noticed? He's more of an athlete than an academic. Brawn, not brains. He doesn't know  _how_ it works, he just knows that it  _does_."

Tony leans heavily against the desk and rolls his eyes, "Course, if we hadn't let them cart off his more intellectually-gifted  _brother_ \- y'know, the one that opened the last portal in the first place? We could ask  _him_  to-"

"You want  _Loki_  in on this?" Steve asks in disbelief, abruptly turning to face him. "Forgetting for just a second that he is an incalculably dangerous  _war-criminal_ , why in God's name would he help  _us_  anyway? There's nothing in it for him, and isn't that how he operates? On a reward basis?"

"Personally, it seemed more like a revenge basis, if you ask me-" Tony interrupts, but Steve talks over him, more to the director now than to Tony himself.

"Even if he  _did_  know anything, even if he  _could_  tell us something useful, we handed him over to the Asgardians to do God knows what with, or to, him," the captain continues, "They could have thrown him in a dungeon, sentenced him to death; they could have been torturing him from the moment he left Earth. Thor hasn't told us anything. Hell, maybe he doesn't even know himself what happened to him."

"What's your point, Steve?" Tony snaps.

"My  _point_ , Tony," Steve retorts angrily, "is that Loki has absolutely  _no_  reason to help us. Wherever he is and whatever state he's in. We'd probably have to make some kind of deal with him and, frankly, I have absolutely  _no_  intention of bargaining with a genocidal psychopath like him for  _whatever_  information he may -"

"We do  _not_ negotiate with terrorists," Fury interjects sharply just as Tony retorts, "Well, you got any  _better_  ideas, bright eyes?"

Hurt briefly flickers across Steve's face. Tony clenches his jaw, and exhales, "Sorry, Steve."

The captain says nothing, but leans harder on the desk, and Tony sees his knuckles blanch a little.

"Any idea that involves Loki is not getting my vote," Steve says through gritted teeth, "I don't care how much he knows. Think of something else, Tony."

"Fine," Tony sighs, and looks at the director, "But you can be damn sure this isn't an isolated incident, Fury. This is probably going to happen again, and we have no idea how soon, or even where. And considering that none of us knows more about building portals than Selvig, and that that part of his memory is conveniently locked off? We need all the help we can get. If you won't ask Loki, ask Thor to talk to his father. Isn't he the granddaddy of the cosmos or something? They control the Bifrost, or whatever the hell it's called. That's a wormhole. That's a portal. We have to ask for their help."

Tony waves at the footage as it plays again, "And who knows, maybe they can even tell us something about this  _thing_ that appears to be eating your agents-"

"Selvig called it a "guardian"," Fury says, arms crossed.

Tony rubs a hand down over his face, suddenly too tired to be trying to understand wormholes and strange black shapeless  _things_  that apparently  _eat people_  and  _not_  piss off Steve trying to help fix the problem, at the same time.

""Guardian", whatever, I don't care," he snaps. Steve straightens and looks at him. Tony tries to collect himself and says quietly, "Look, if something or  _someone_  is sucking people out of this plane of existence then outside of the obvious  _how_ , I just have two questions. One,  _where_  are they being taken, and two, more importantly,  _why_?"

Now Steve folds his arms, one hand rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip, thinking.

The captain nods, cogs whirring in his head, "If this isn't an accident, there must be motive," he glances at Tony before looking over at the director, "We just need to find a way to figure out what that motive is."

"And then we focus on the where and how," Tony adds.

Fury uncrosses his arms, "Well I for one am very hesitant to leave two teams of SHIELD agents potentially spinning in the abyss of space for any longer than they have to. Dead or alive. Whatever plane they're on."

Steve nods grimly, and Tony puts a hand on his shoulder, silently relieved when he doesn't flinch away.

"Better get started then, hadn't we?"

. . .

Bruce rubs his eyes, glasses looped over a finger.

"Tony, no matter how many times you ask me, you're gonna get the same answer.  _They no longer exist here_. They aren't dead, there are no bodies, no nothing, and their trackers haven't been removed or incapacitated either. They are just, gone. We can't track them with any of the tech we have."

"Banner, if they're gone,  _where did they go_? It's a simple question. They can't just vanish, they have to have gone  _somewhere_. Both Selvig and Thor said inter-dimensional travel. That means a portal."

Tony turns when the doctor doesn't answer him, "What, am I wrong? Inter-dimensional travel requires a portal, right?"

Bruce nods, "Far as we know."

"Right," Tony says, turning his eyes back to the screens in front of them.

Bruce opens and closes his mouth before he continues, "Unless it's teleportation-"

Tony makes a frustrated sound, "No, it's not! You have been telling me for the last  _four hours_ that the agents no longer exist  _on this plane_ , which means, they now exist somewhere  _else_ , right? From the very infinitesimally little we know about inter-dimensional travel, we know it requires a portal, a wormhole, whatever you want to call it. But  _teleportation across dimensions_? The disassembly of particles and their reassembly at a different point in space, and now maybe even time? We can't even crack teleportation on  _this_ plane yet, Bruce. Come on."

The doctor's mouth quirks and he turns back to his screen. Tony slams his hand down against the workbench between them in frustration.

"God  _damn it_. If Selvig could just remember a  _single_   _bastard thing_  about that  _last_  portal he constructed that would be just  _great,_  but no, he can't. Big picture? Yes. Crucially important details? Not a single damn one. Just a big fog of nothing. Fucking  _perfect_."

Bruce tucks his glasses into his pocket, "What about the big ugly?"

"Big ugly? Coming from you? Really, Banner?" Tony raises an eyebrow. He knows Bruce won't take the bait, but he's tired, he's cranky, and good  _God_  do his eyes hurt from staring at screens and holograms for hours.

Bruce doesn't rise to it, just rewinds the footage again and pauses it. The black shape seems to change form every time they freeze the recording, and neither of them have any explanation for that. It's driving Tony slowly crazy. He can feel it in the itching in his eyes.

"Selvig thought it may be some kind of guardian," Bruce offers, for about the hundredth time.

Tony nods, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Yeah, so I heard, the first dozen times you and everybody else said it. What I want to know is why isn't it staying in one shape on the recording? Have you ever seen anything else do that?"

The doctor shakes his head no and Tony growls under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face.

"How the hell is it  _doing that_?" he says angrily.

"If I was gonna take a random stab at it? And  _not_  say very advanced technology? I'd have to say magic," Bruce murmurs, rewinding the footage again. "And I'll be honest, magic is a little out of my league."

He clicks pause, and again, the black shape is different.

"Is there even a consistent  _kind_  of form this thing is taking?" Tony asks, exasperated.

"Well, one moment it looks like a snake, then it looks like a horse, then maybe, I don't know, a wolf? Course, if it's alien mojo, then it could be the form of something we've never seen and don't have a name for."

The doctor rubs his chin, subsiding into silence.

Tony rubs his eyes again, fed up of not having the answers yet. No, fed up is not the right word, royally pissed off is closer, but doesn't quite capture the incessant itching rage that is building behind his eyes. He sees the vein jump in Bruce's temple and hopes that this is making the doctor one hell of a lot less angry than it's making him, because God knows  _that_ would end horribly for everyone.

The two of them have been smacking their heads against the proverbial brick wall for hours and Tony is badly craving coffee. Unbelievably, he's even craving sleep, possibly more than caffeine, and for the urge to sleep to override the urge to consume dangerous quantities of coffee is quite something. They're getting nowhere with the footage, the trackers are utterly uncontactable, and suddenly, there's nothing Tony wants more in the world than to curl up in a bed and sleep for a day. Maybe even two. He can't even remember the last time he genuinely craved bed without attaching the thought to the prospect of sex. Just bed for the sake of sleep.

He smiles absent-mindedly as he thinks of the last sleep he managed to snatch, curled up around Steve, worn out limbs heavy from their little post-Parisian dinner "workout".

And again, sleep and bed attached to sex, as always; Tony has to fight the urge to laugh when he realises.

With a sigh, he switches feeds on screen, going over the same footage for what feels like the thousandth time. He rubs his eyes again. He finds it hard to believe that Paris was such a short time ago; less than a day. It feels like weeks, months even, and on top of the coffee craving, on top of the sleep craving, Tony finds himself craving Steve. It's nestled in him like a dull, persistent ache, it has been for months now, and he decides that it's a lot like being hungry, having that strange hollow in the pit of your stomach. And then he wonders when he last ate. Probably in Paris, come to think of it. He'll call something up in a minute. Maybe. There's bound to be something edible  _somewhere_  on this floating scrapheap. Besides, he has work to do. Bizarre anomaly first, chow later.

But his mind wanders back to Steve, and he wonders absently what he's doing. Training, most likely, because he's always training. Constant vigilance, yadda yadda.

He's probably beating the living daylights out of some poor unsuspecting punching bag. Or sparring partner. Either, or.

Maybe both.

And Tony finds himself thinking more about that little crease the captain gets in his forehead when he concentrates, and less about the missing team, the tracker anomalies, the shape-shifting "guardian". Less about all that, and far, far more about the way the sweat beads and runs when Steve's working out too hard, how it collects in the hollows of muscle, the dimples in the small of his back, the hard planes of his stomach. The way his eyes narrow and the focus drowns everything else out into silence, save for the steady  _thud thud_ of his gloves on the leather punching bag. The way he flexes his fingers after he takes those gloves off, working out the slight stiffness; because Steve never gets really stiff, never gets really tired. Well, not quickly. Not easily.

And his thoughts go back to the night before; to Steve collapsing heavily on the bed, sleepy and sticky and smiling. A smile tugs at the corners of his own mouth as he remembers how quickly the captain fell asleep afterwards, turning into a quiet chuckle as he wonders what he'll be like when it's more than them just rutting against each other like that.

Tony's been taking his sweet time, he admits, before he and Steve do… well,  _that_. He's waiting for something, though he's not sure what that "something" is yet. He's just, y'know, waiting. He'll know what the "something" is when he knows.

_Probably…_

But whatever it is, it's creating one hell of a build-up, and Tony just hopes he can live up to the expectation that that build up is probably creating.

 _Course, if Steve passes out that easily from just a little rutting then, hell, he'll probably be a real-life Sleeping Beauty when we_ finally _get round to_ properly-

Bruce coughs loudly and Tony starts with a soft wheeze of " _Jesus-!_ ", launched right out of his inappropriate reverie.

The doctor raises an eyebrow at him, and Tony sighs and blinks his eyes to try and focus them. He can feel them getting drier by the minute. Some days he really finds himself hating staring at screens, and during the days they spend in the dry recycled air of the helicarrier, he hates it irrationally more.

He rubs at his eyes irritably. He wants eye drops. And espresso. Several espressos. Perhaps a jug of espresso.

 _If one is a_ solo _, and two is a_ doppio _, what in the hell is a jug?_

He shakes his head as he feels his thoughts start to run away with him, and suddenly he feels so tired that he admits he'll probably have to ask Bruce to make sure he doesn't drink the eye drops and pour the espresso into his eyes.

Because that'd sure as shit sting, if it didn't outright blind him.

He's staring at one of the visuals over Bruce's shoulder, eyes itching, just about to give in to the cravings and get up and fetch them some coffee, when the doctor stops what he's doing and taps a screen by his head, swiping fingers across it and bringing up multiple windows.

"Hey, Tony?"

"Yup?" he says, a yawn catching him off guard, "I'm still here. Kind of."

Bruce pauses, and hums, eyes rapidly scanning the screens, focusing on one in particular, "Good, 'cos I think I've got something."

The doctor looks at a screen to his left and drags a window over to compare to a second open in front of them. He motions Tony to come closer, hooking his glasses back over his ears.

"Look. This is the last of the data transmission recorded for the team."

Tony blinks to try and wet his itching eyes, "Yeah, so what am I looking at? We've been over this section a million times. We've been looking at it for about  _four hours_."

Bruce shakes his head, "See here?" he points a finger at a section of the screen, "This is where the trackers stopped transmitting."

"Right…" Tony nods, not getting it.  _Jesus, was the lack of caffeine really making him this_ slow _? Or was this just the residual tired from all the "exercise" the night before?_

And his thoughts start wandering to Steve again…

Tony shakes his head a little violently. Bruce turns to look at him over his shoulder, looking vaguely concerned, "You okay, Tony?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Tony waves it away, "Just  _really_ could do with some coffee. I'm zoning out here."

"They have voice command here too, y'know," Bruce smiles, pointing at the ceiling, "All you gotta do is ask."

Tony blinks, "What, seriously? When the hell did they install that?"

Bruce just shrugs.

Tony rubs his left eye, and says to the ceiling, "Hey, can we get some coffee in here, please?"

There is the slightest hiss of static and a voice says, "Right away, Mr Stark."

Bruce smiles over at him, "See?"

Tony nods, then pauses.

"Wait," he says loudly, "bring me some eye drops too, if you have any lying about."

There is another hiss, and the voice sounds a little perplexed as it replies, "Uh, yes, sir. I'll see what I can do?"

"Much obliged," Tony calls out.

He looks at the doctor and says, not quietly, "They're watching our every move, aren't they?"

Bruce just smiles, but it's more like a grimace this time.

Tony takes it as a yes.

A minute or two later an agent,  _probably a rookie if they're on coffee-fetching duty_ , appears at the door with a tray; two cups, a huge cafetiere, and a tiny bottle of clear solution. Tony prises the tray from the agent's hands, murmuring his thanks and shooing them out, and presses a cup into Bruce's hand, downing his own in moments.

"Better?" the doctor smiles at him. Tony nods, swallowing his second and pouring his third, already feeling more alert. He prises his eyes open and administers the eye drops, sighing gratefully when the liquid hits, blinking the excess out in strange pseudo-tears. Bruce smirks at him over his glasses, "Only time anyone ever gets to see you cry, huh?"

"If you call this crying, sure," Tony answers. He drops the bottle back on the tray and retrieves his cup. He motions at the screens with it, leaning back against the bench, "So, what've we got?"

Bruce turns back to the footage as Tony drains his third cup, feeling the coffee hit his empty stomach, the caffeine from the first two cups crawling through him already.

"In the simplest terms?" Bruce mutters, "The agents went off the grid."

"Well, yeah, we knew that already," Tony says, rolling the empty cup in his hands, "That's old news, Banner."

The doctor turns to look at Tony over his shoulder again, "Yeah, I know, but when I say "off the grid"? I'm talking  _way_  off."

"Different dimension, yeah, got that too," Tony nods in agreement, waiting for Bruce to continue. He watches him takes a sip of his own coffee and get distracted by another screen to his left. Tony has to nudge him to prompt him to go on.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Uh, right, where was I?" He fumbles on the desk behind him, leafing through papers, "On the footage –  _where_   _did I put that tablet_  – there's this weird flicker just before we lose the trackers."

As he continues to thumb through the piles, searching, he shrugs, "At first I was sure it was a glitch, because what it's telling me is beyond crazy, the numbers are total garbage, but it happened to every tracker. All of them, at exactly the same time."

He turns back to Tony, pointing a stack of paper at him, "And this is where it gets good. The numbers make no discernible sense, but there's something else. The energy signature the trackers picked up?  _Very_  similar to one we encountered on top of your tower not too long ago."

Bruce then gets up from his seat, takes a few steps to a different desk, similarly piled with paperwork, and after a minute of rummaging finally retrieves a handheld tablet.

"Wait, you mean the  _Cosmic Cube's_  signature?" Tony asks.

Bruce nods and hands him the tablet.

"Here," he points, "that blip."

Tony follows it, watches the flicker. And it's just that, a tiny flicker; microseconds, if that. He squints at the screen, "What the hell is it?"

Bruce looks at him, arms crossed. His expression fairly clearly says "Guess that coffee hasn't quite kicked in yet".

"Can we bring this up on the main screen?" Tony asks.

The doctor nods, and the screen behind them, as wide and as long as the lab wall, goes black and resets, lighting up as the interface comes online. Tony pinches the window on the tablet and throws it at the screen. It hits and spreads out, filling the space.

The two men stare at the glowing image.

"Banner," Tony asks, as the doctor comes to stand by his shoulder, "correct me if I'm wrong, but that? That looks a lot like a portal."

Bruce nods, rewinding the footage and playing it again, slower this time.

Sure enough, there is a flash of blue, circular in shape.

Tony stands up, placing his empty cup on the desk behind him, and walks over to the screen, fingers tracing the "o" as it flickers in and out of existence.

"I know I laughed earlier when you mentioned teleportation, but now that I think about it… What if, in this case, teleportation is just the opening and closing of a portal in an incredibly short space of time?" he says softly, "And if it's the Cube again-"

Bruce folds his arms, "If it is, then Fury's gonna want to hear about it."

Tony nods, eyes on the screen, mind racing.

"He's not the only one. Tell him to call Selvig in again. We need to know what he knows."

Bruce shifts his weight to the other foot before he answers, "Tony, he doesn't know  _anything_ , remember? Everything he did with the stable portal was under Loki's control. That whole blue-eyed zombie thing."

Tony nods again, turning to face the doctor.

"And that's why we need to talk to Thor. If this is the Cube, then that means that either the Asgardians are using it-"

"Or we have another problem on our hands," Bruce sighs.

"A bigger one," Tony nods, eyes back on the screen, "A much, much bigger one."

. . .

A dull thud echoes through the training room and the punching bag swings back and forth in slower, shallower arcs as it comes to hang still.

Steve rubs his wrists and adjusts the strapping round his hands, breathing slightly harder than normal, but not by much. He straightens up, and without turning round, he smiles and says aloud, "You don't have to watch from the shadows you know. I don't bite."

A soft chuckle floats through the air.

"No," comes the disembodied voice, "but I do."

A moment later, Natasha steps out from behind a girder with a smile on her face and her hands up.

"Caught me."

The captain smiles back, "I'm sure if you didn't want me to know you were there, that wouldn't have been half so easy."

She circles the punching bag, coming to stand beside it, and runs a hand down the leather. Her smile dissolves, replaced by her signature schooled look, as she traces letters.

"So, did you hear?"

"About the missing teams?" Steve asks, eyebrows raised, "Yeah, yeah I heard. Tony and I were briefed as soon as we got back."

"And the portal?" She adds, fingers still moving.

He tucks the loose end of the strapping back into place at his wrist and nods, "That too. Not sure I believe it though."

"Oh, I'd believe it if I were you," Natasha says, resting her hands on the punching bag, "Tony and Bruce are doing their little science nut over it, though I can't say I'm as excited. They seem to have forgotten that the last two times a portal appeared, the first was so unstable that it tore down the base, and the second opened up onto an invading alien hoard."

Steve smiles, "Can't say you sound too keen on space portals, ma'am."

Natasha smiles back thinly, "Let's just say that they're not my favourite scientific phenomenon."

Steve nods, "No, I'm with you on that one. Space seems like nothing but a whole lot of trouble, and frankly, we have enough of that here on our own planet, without it coming looking for us."

"And yet, here we go again," she sighs, "It seems like it  _is_  looking for us. That or it's perfectly happy to suck up a few teams at a time. Trouble that is. In whatever fun new form it comes in this time."

The captain looks up, "You mean the "guardian" Selvig was talking about?"

Natasha nods, "The dream team can't seem to get a lock on what it actually looks like, say it keeps shifting, even in paused footage. That's enough for me to class it as trouble."

She pulls her fist back and lands it, pressing a soft punch to the side of the bag, pushing against the fabric with her knuckles.

Steve looks from the bag to her, "You want to actually have a go with that? I think I'm done for the day if you do."

She shakes her head, "No. Thanks. I just wanted to check that you were up to date on all the, uh, "exciting" new developments."

Steve clenches and unclenches his fingers and brushes off the dust on his sweatpants.

"Missing agents, portal, shape-shifting guardian," he ticks off on his fingers, then smiles, "I do believe I'm up to date, Ms Romanov, thank you."

"A pleasure as always, captain," the spy replies, with a dip of her head, smiling back at him as he shoulders his kit to head back to his quarters.

Abruptly, a light flashes red in the ceiling above them, and Fury's voice echoes around training room, a low commanding boom.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we have another incident. Get yourselves to the bridge STAT."

Steve lets his kit bag drop to the floor, and looks over at Natasha to see her stretching her arms above her head, twisting left and right, rolling her joints. He raises an eyebrow when she looks at him and she just shrugs, rotating her wrists.

"No rest for the wicked," she says, then pats him on the shoulder, "Better get your suit on, Cap. Looks like it's show time."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written to the sultry sounds of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue!


	16. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFC it has been TOO LONG ;w;
> 
> so! dissertation is DONE (MUAHAHA /madcackles) and i have just moved to Switzerland to live with my parents after taking my imouto to university in the UK (/sobs! so proud!).
> 
> and. well. 'LO AND BEHOLD, the MOMENT my feet hit Swiss soil, the writers block has buggered off! SO HAPPY (yes imouto, you did tell me so u.u)
> 
> AND SO, AT LONG BLADDY FESTERING LAST, I GIVE YOU, CHAPTER 16!

 

"Remind me why we are  _still_ traipsing through the forest in the middle of the night…"

"Tony…"

"…in the cold…"

" _Tony_ …"

"…and the rain?"

" _Tony_ , would you  _please_   _shut up_? I can hear you halfway across the goddamn grid even  _without_  the comms."

"Bite me, Barton. I'm freezing my ass off up here."

"What, you forget to install central heating in that hunk o' tin o' yours?"

"For your information, it's not  _tin_ , it's titanium alloy-"

"Like I give a crap-"

"-and I'm just educating you. Jesus, Barton. Poor form."

"Hey, knock it off you two," Steve's voice cuts through the banter, "Stay focused. Just because we haven't found anything yet doesn't mean this couldn't go south any minute."

Clint, safely hidden in the cold, wet darkness around them, mutters, "I swear to God, Cap, if you say the words "We're not out of the woods yet" I will-"

"Show some respect, Barton, he outranks you-" Tony snarks.

"Oh please, how was that disrespectful exac-?"

"I said, _knock it off_ ," Steve repeats loudly, tone signalling a clear end to the discussion. He comes to a halt beside the base of a thick pine, and crouches down, frowning.

"Yes, sir," Clint replies, not at all begrudgingly. They can almost hear Tony rolling his eyes far above their heads.

The captain runs gloved fingers across deep gauges in the tree's bark. He isn't sure how he'd missed them the first four times he'd been past this same spot, but there is no mistaking them now. The black bark is splintered around the tracks. Too-white; evenly spaced, but savage. Not bullet tracks, they are too vicious for that.

They are claw marks.

His eyes cast about as he straightens. The last thing they need is to be caught off guard by a wild animal, especially when they've been scouring the forest for hours being relentlessly pelted by steady sheets of rain. Steve clenches and unclenches his fingers, thankful his body can stave off the numbness of cold for far longer than other men. He's needed that tonight.

The gloom around him reveals nothing, and for a moment all he hears is the thud of fat rain droplets against branch, trunk, and forest floor; monotonous and heavy, like a drum beat, pounding in his ears. He checks the device on his wrist, display emitting clear green light as it broadcasts their progress. They've been working through a tight grid, but so far, nothing, absolutely nothing. They've nearly reached the edge again, and they haven't found a damn thing; not so much as a boot print. These… claw marks… are the first thing they've found that seems out of place.

But then again, they  _are_  in the woods in the middle of the night. When else would they meet the big bad wolf?

Steve sighs, a frustrated exhale of breath.

"Any word on Thor?"

"Not so far," Natasha says, appearing suddenly at his elbow, "The team at the Bifrost landing site haven't made contact yet."

She flicks a clump of wet needles off her shoulder.

"To be honest, as long as this  _stays_  just a recon outing, we can probably make do without our demigod."

Steve smiles, "You mean as long as we don't encounter anything or any _one_  that requires a little more firepower and a little less stealth?"

She nods, smirking.

"Be honest, do you think Thor is even capable of stealth? Guy's all charge and no tactics. Hit first, ask questions later, that's his M.O."

Steve lets out a chuckle at the thought. He holds a branch back to let her pass as they move forward, only releasing it when she's safely ahead of him, the branch springing back into place with a shower of water. Clint curses somewhere; tripped over a tree root, perhaps, or sunk knee-deep in a puddle of freezing muddy water. Tony's laughter echoes over the comms.

Steve adjusts his shield, "He certainly used to be like that. I'd like to think he's got better, matured even."

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"Can you imagine him tramping through this and  _not_ alerting everything within a 5 mile radius of our position? He's like a bull in armour. Or an elephant. Something big, not exactly graceful."

Steve pauses and shrugs, a smile in his eyes.

"Uh… Okay, perhaps not."

Natasha laughs, a warm sound in the cold night, "There ya go."

They duck under a branch, and she looks at him out of the corner of her eye,

"Now  _Loki_  on the other hand-"

Steve doesn't let her finish that thought,

"Let's not tempt fate by mentioning his brother, okay? "Speak of the devil and he shall come" and all that?"

Natasha nods in agreement, only just refraining from rolling her eyes at the superstition behind the words. Murphy's Law she could believe in, if not superstitious nonsense.

But these days, when gods and monsters  _weren't_  just children's bedtime stories and folklore anymore, when they were flesh and blood and bone as much as the rest of them, one could never be too sure; or too careful.

"Guessing that's why Banner's warm and cosy back at base, huh?" Clint's voice comes suddenly through their earpieces, "Can't have the Hulk trampling the forest and letting everyone know we're here."

"He's working with Selvig," Steve replies, "His talents are of more use there. We need his brain more than his brawn tonight. The only reason Tony isn't with them is because we needed someone to do aerial recon and his suit has stealth cloaking."

"Damn right it does," Tony quips.

"And hence why we're not so sore about Thor not being here," Clint nods, "Got it."

"Exactly."

Natasha barely makes a sound as she moves through the underbrush, feet impossibly silent against the soft mulch beneath them. Mud oozes up to fill the prints of her boots as soon as her weight leaves the ground, rippling black and silver as the clouds scud overhead, pale shafts of moonlight filtering through the trees' thick needles. When the moon disappears from sight behind thick cloud, they are plunged into total darkness, the thin beams of their flashlights reaching weakly through the damp gloom. Natasha disappears to Steve's right, one hand on the hilt of her gun. As always.

"Tony, got anything for me?" Steve asks, moving forward alone.

He sighs when Tony says, "Nope, nada."

There is a brief pause before Tony adds, smirk clearly audible in his voice, "…though there  _is_  a bunk waiting back at base with our names on it …"

This pulls a groan from Clint, followed shortly by feigned gagging sounds. Tony promptly tells him to go fuck himself and Clint flips him off, hand to the dark boughs overhead.

Steve coughs politely, curving left through the endless sea of wet, black trunks, "Not the best time for that kinda talk, Tony…"

"Awh c'mon, I'm just trying to make this a little more fun… because God knows it hasn't been so far. I'm bored to fucking tears up here going round and round and round and not finding a damn thing. This is our fifth sweep. What are we expecting to see? And how long have we been scouring this grid for now?"

"Long enough," says Natasha, reappearing abruptly at the captain's side.

She runs a hand through her hair, damp from the constant dripping of the branches. She's let it grow recently, and Steve has to admit he prefers it long. He reminds himself to tell her that sometime. People appreciate a sincere compliment; even women like Natasha, who couldn't give a rat's ass what people think about her most of the time.

Thick, copper tendrils cling to her face, and she swipes one away from her lips. Near the forest floor, the rain hangs like mist all around them, trickling through the dense foliage above, and Steve can feel it beginning to seep through the fabric of his suit. The vaguest sense of cold is pricking at the tips of his toes and fingers, and if  _he's_  cold, the others must really be feeling it. God, but it's freezing in Germany this time of year.

Natasha rubs her hands together for warmth, "It's too dark to find anything now, Cap, especially with so little moonlight. We should call it a night and head back. Get some sleep and start fresh tomorrow morning, when it's light."

She looks up, and a fat drop of rain splashes into her eye for her trouble. She blinks it out, wiping at it and cursing in grumbled Russian.

Clint's voice filters through Steve's earpiece, "I'm with Nat on this one. It's dark, it's wet, I'm fucking freezing. Let's turn in."

"Oh so  _now_  you want to turn in?" Tony interrupts from high above their heads.

"Not all of us have enhanced bodies or supersuits, Stark," Clint snaps, "I can barely feel my damn fingers. And for an archer, I think we can all agree that that constitutes a serious problem."

"My God, would you two stop it?" Steve says, "Your jawing is enough to give even  _me_  a headache."

The captain looks at the grid map glowing on his wrist and sighs.

"But when you're right, you're right. We're nearly at the grid edge anyway. That's enough for today."

He puts his arms through his shield's straps, positioning it across his back, "Tony, pack it up. Pick up Agent Barton and meet us at the rendezvous point in 10 minutes. Call the jet, Agent Romanov."

Natasha nods, already talking into her earpiece.

The short walk seems to take forever, cold gnawing insistently at their bones, boots and calves spattered with thick mud. They walk in companionable silence, Natasha pulling her hair back into a loose ponytail. When they arrive, Clint is already waiting, looking thoroughly wet and miserable. He jerks a thumb at the sky and grouses, "I'm fucking soaked thanks to _that_  jackass. Bastard flew here fast on purpose and  _then_ he dropped me on a pile of wet-"

"Lies and slander," Tony retorts through the comms, and Clint, griping cut short, makes a face at the sky.

Natasha smiles and says, "Play nice, boys."

Clint waves a hand at her, dismissively, "Yeah, yeah."

Lowering himself to sit on the fallen log besides the archer, Steve flexes his fingers and says irritably, "We went over the grid five times tonight and didn't find a damn thing. This is not promising, to say the least."

"Cap, it's the middle of the night and it's raining. Not ideal conditions for anyone," Clint replies, hand on his shoulder.

"Ideal for ducks," comes Tony's voice, as he lowers himself stiltedly down through the branches. He sinks even further into the mud than the rest of them, the suit weighing him down. His faceplate slides back.

"Great, now I'll have to pressure wash it," he mutters under his breath, throwing his hands up in exasperation at the state of the metal from the calves down, "This is worse than dry cleaning. You would not  _believe_ how much of a pain in the ass it is cleaning this thing."

Tony plods over to Steve and flops down beside him, eyeing the archer's hand on Steve's shoulder and glaring at him until he snatches it away, muttering "Jesus, jealous boyfriend much?"

Steve pushes his cowl back and scrubs a hand through his hair. The cold is making him groggy, and he supresses a yawn. Tony eyes the mussed, blonde mop and nudges the captain with a metal shoulder.

"Hello there, handsome," he says, smiling, "What's a city boy like you doing in a forest like this?"

Steve sighs, rubbing at his eyes, "Right now? Trying not to feel thoroughly disappointed."

Tony shrugs, "Something will come up, Cap, don't sweat it."

Steve gives a tired imitation of the lopsided smile that Tony loves so much, and Tony rewards him for trying by kissing his temple. The captain makes a contented little sound and gently shoulder-nudges Tony back.

…Which is when Clint makes a gagging noise and shuffles further down the log, frantically rubbing his hands together to warm them and muttering under his breath about "lovebirds" and "PDAs" and "stop making me look at it". Natasha emerges from the trees and folds herself onto the log next to him, saying "Pick-up arriving in 3 minutes, gentlemen," hand to her earpiece as she relays the message. They all nod.

3 minutes later, tracking mud and soaked to the bone, they are all immensely grateful when pickup arrives. Tony wastes no time in procuring himself a large measure of whisky (from God knows where), "just to warm up". Steve just shakes his head, smiling, beyond eager to peel himself out of his wet suit and slip into a nice, warm bath the moment they get back to base.

 

**...**

Wet footsteps glisten from the shower stall to the sink, where Tony swipes a hand across the steamed-up mirror.

"Well that was a colossal waste of time," he says, voice muffled through the towel he's now using to scrub his hair and face dry.

"It might not have been," Steve replies from the bathtub, "We had to get underway with the recon, and we couldn't wait in case we lost leads, what with the rain and all. Tracks washed away by the-"

Tony stops scrubbing, "Look. Steve. If there were ever any tracks to follow, they would have been gone long before we even showed up. It's been raining for two days straight. You saw the state of the ground, it was an absolute bog. The rain probably already washed away anything we could've tracked."

The captain taps his fingers on the edge of the overlarge bathtub, leant up against the side,

"Not necessarily. The pines were thick enough to offer fair cover from the rain. There could have been something."

Tony fixes him with a look.

"We went over that grid  _five times_ , Steve. If there was something to find, we would've found it."

Steve pauses.

"But what about the claw marks?"

Tony throws the towel over his shoulder, "You heard the ground team at the debrief, a bear could've done that, or a wolf. It probably doesn't mean anything."

The captain heaves a sigh and pops a bubble floating on the surface of the bathwater. His face is scrunched up in a scowl and Tony watches a droplet of water course down over his temple, along his cheekbone. Another hangs from the tip of his nose, then drops into the bath with a soft  _plip_.

"We go back out at first light," Steve mutters, resolute, then sinks down into the water, submerging himself completely.

When he surfaces, Tony is sat on the edge of the bath, fingers trailing in the bubbles. He smiles as Steve wipes the water from his eyes.

"What?" Steve asks, bubbles dissolving in a soft fizz against his skin.

Tony shakes his head.

"Oh, it's nothing."

Steve blinks through rivulets of water and smooths his wet hair back with a hand. He keeps his eyes on Tony's face.

"You sure?"

The billionaire nods.

"It can wait," he says with a smile.

The smile fades as his fingers dip into the water, scooping up a handful of bubbles. Slowly, he closes his palm, and crushes them. Steve's eyebrows knit together.

"Tony?"

His eyes come up to meet Steve's own.

"Talk to me," the captain says softly.

The smile reappears, stretching languidly across Tony's lips, warmth seeping back into his face.

"I can think of something much,  _much_ better, actually," he says, and stands, peeling the damp towel from round his waist. It slips to the floor, shortly followed by the towel over his shoulder.

Steve blushes.

"Tony, you just had a shower-"

The billionaire laughs, shaking his head, and puts a tentative foot into the bathwater, hissing as he feels the temperature change.

"This isn't about being clean, Steve."

As he sinks into the bath, already over-full, the level rises sharply, sending water cascading over the sides and smattering on the tiled floor.

"Tony-" Steve starts.

But the billionaire's lips silence him with a circle of heat, pressing against his own mouth, urging him softly to be silent.

The water laps against his shoulders as Tony sinks in above him, ripples curling up towards his throat as the billionaire slides into his lap. Steam rises in lazy curls from his fingers as he trails them across Tony's chest, and Steve feels him hum contentedly as he adjusts his weight, one hand on the edge of the bathtub beside Steve's head. His kisses are soft, chaste even, but insistent, and Steve's lips part when Tony finally pushes forward with his tongue, dipping in and out. Tony's other hand sweeps tendrils of heavy, golden hair back from Steve's cheek, thumb rubbing small circles at his temple. The water licks hot against his chest.

"The bubbles tickle," Tony murmurs against his lips, and Steve nods, hands sliding through the water up Tony's sides, across his back, encircling him. Tony's knees press up against the edge of the bath.

"That can't be comfortable," the captain murmurs.

He feels Tony's mouth curl into a smile, "It isn't  _un_ comfortable," Tony replies quietly, braced against the side of the bathtub, "And besides-" he pauses, pressing soft, closed-mouth kisses from the captain's ear to the base of his throat, listening to the quiet sigh that escapes him as he does it, "It's more than worth it."

Knuckles kneading into the skin at the base of Tony's spine and further, Steve hums in agreement.

Tony's fingers snake up to link behind his head, and Steve pulls him closer, snaring his lips again. Fingers then begin to circle with slow, careful pressure across the captain's shoulders, creeping down along the top of his spine. He hums as the heat of the water and the pressure of Tony's fingers sees the deep ache nestled between his shoulder blades begin to dissipate. Too soon, Tony pulls back, smoothing fingers up and over his shoulders, maintaining the pressure, down across his collar bones. Steve smiles drowsily, and-

Tony smears bubbles across his chin, above his lip, and kisses him.

"There," he murmurs, smiling against his mouth, "now we match, bubble-beard."

Steve promptly dunks him for ruining the moment.

 

**...**

Natasha places the thick dossier on the table between them, and after a moment, reluctantly relays its unfortunate contents.

"They think it's Loki."

Fury curses under his breath.

There is a long pause before he speaks, eye trained sharply on her, voice tightly controlled,

"Are you fucking kidding me? The guy we sent back to Asgard in a collar and cuffs is behind this?  _Really_?"

Natasha nods once.

Fury rubs his chin with a hand, brows knitted together.

"And Selvig and Banner are  _sure_?"

"Yes, sir."

" _How_  sure?"

She shrugs.

"Sure enough to bring it to you."

Fury curses again, loudly. A moment passes in silence before he asks,

"Has Thor confirmed that Loki is missing?"

She nods curtly,

"Coulson's with him in New Mexico. He's not getting much out of him at this point, but he's still trying. Sir-"

He waves a hand to cut her off, and mutters something to himself as he rubs his eye with a thumb.

He sighs, long-suffering, and leaning forward on an elbow, says,

"Tell me everything."

She pushes the dossier across the table towards him. The director thumbs through it, single eye rapidly scanning the contents. She waits.

But she doesn't wait long.

" _Son of a_ -"

Fury slams the folder shut and leans heavily against the table. Natasha says nothing.

Darkly, Fury mutters,

"He wants Phase 2, doesn't he?"

She folds her hands in front of her.

"We don't know for sure, sir. But the areas targeted so far  _have_  been involved in R&D for Phase 2 weapons prototypes and systems. We don't know how he knew that. It's possible he may still be in control of some of our agents; maybe even has been the whole time."

She pauses, "We don't know for sure what he pulled out of Clint's head, after all."

Fury's mouth is set in a grim line for a long moment.

"Agent Romanov."

"Sir?"

"Move it."

Her eyebrows knit together,

"Sir?"

The director's eye snaps up.

"Move. It." he says slowly, enunciating, "And I mean  _all of it_. For all we know, the R &D sites may have been compromised already, and we can't take that chance. We can't risk those prototypes falling into Loki's hands."

Natasha nods,

"Want me to put the word out?"

Fury shakes his head, "No. You leave that to me. I'll brief the team in the morning."

He taps a finger against the table, "Captain Rogers wants you all out again at first light. That gives you…" he checks his watch, "4 hours, tops. Go get some sleep."

She nods again, "Yes, sir," then spins on her heel, leaving him alone at his desk.

Fury sighs when she's gone, rubbing his eye with his thumb again, and mutters,

"Well, Nick, looks like it's gonna be a long, hard night."

 

**...**

He'd left Tony tinkering with some pile of metal in their quarters, blissfully unaware ( _or so he thought_ ) of what he was about to do. He wasn't sure how Tony would react to the knowledge, in any case. The billionaire could be so blasé about so many things, including (and often  _especially_ ) the important ones, and yet completely,  _terrifyingly_ , serious about others. Steve actually had a (thankfully infrequent) recurring nightmare about Tony "saying it with flowers", which always ended with Tony having the offending bouquet forcibly shoved down his gullet; which, needless to say, wasn't pretty.

With that fear constantly gnawing at him – that Tony would make the announcement and  _completely fuck it up_  – Steve had recently been thinking more, and more, and  _still_  more, about how on Earth they would  _finally_  break it to the director.

Fury probably (and fairly safely, to be honest) assumed Tony slept, or got "involved", with whoever the hell he wanted at any particular point in time; gender was frankly irrelevant. But Steve, on the other hand, was a whole 'nother kettle of fish. Steve had never discussed his romantic entanglements with his superiors, let alone his sexuality; whatever the hell that even meant these days.

And, actually, if he was perfectly honest, it all came down to one thing, really; regardless of labels like gay, straight, bi-, omni-, pan-, demi-, or the whole host, the entire  _onslaught_ , of other confusing, irrelevant, and frankly  _pointless_ labels that society had chosen to attach to different "sexualities", to Steve Rogers, love was love. He couldn't give a damn what other people called what he was doing and who he was doing it with because  _it didn't matter_. Whatever label it was under, whatever box people wanted to put it in to make _themselves_  feel more comfortable, that wouldn't change how he felt.

His feelings for Tony were real. He'd been alive too long, and seen too much, to think otherwise. He  _knew_  that what he felt was real as sure as he knew that there are 50 stars on the American flag, and he'd be damned if he was going to be made to feel guilty about it.

And he sure as hell wasn't going to hide it anymore.

Steve was finally resigned to the fact that he needed to get it out in the open; because he just couldn't stand the double-life he felt like he was leading. He didn't want to have to avoid it anymore, to pussyfoot around the topic in conversation or stifle a comment, to stop his hand halfway to Tony's in the corridors or agonise about some future unintentional slip-up that could spell disaster for the both of them.

And yet sometimes it felt like everyone knew, anyway, but couldn't talk about it, which riled him all the more. Everyone "knew", except the most important person. And Steve couldn't take it anymore. It was absolutely infuriating to him.

He  _had_  to tell Fury, and he had to do it  _now_ , while he was still bolstered by the frankly slightly manic courage that had suddenly materialised out of nowhere just 5 minutes ago, skittering around inside him like a caged animal. Because it wouldn't last.

And the  _most_  infuriating part of this whole ridiculous farce of a conversation was that he'd already braced himself for it  _so many times_. He'd been over it over and over in his head, every single way it could possibly pan out, and each and every time he'd steeled himself and marched down the long corridor to Fury's office, his courage had wilted just as he'd needed it most. He'd buckled; cut and run. And Steve Rogers didn't do that.

Honestly, some days he was almost  _sure_  he'd rather face the damned Red Skull again than have this conversation with Fury.

But today was different. He  _couldn't_  bottle it now, because somehow he knew that he wouldn't get this same chance twice. This moment of insane courage would pass him by if he didn't grasp it firmly by the horns and, damn it all to hell,  _just run with it_.

 

**...**

And so, 20 minutes of agonising and hand-wringing later, Steve Rogers lingers awkwardly in the doorway of Fury's office. He clears his throat to announce his presence.

Though he needn't have bothered. Fury was already aware of it, and had been aware of it for the 5 minutes Steve had been waiting behind the closed door, just down the corridor, desperately fidgeting.

Steve coughs.

"Sir, I have something to discuss with you."

Fury doesn't look up when he answers,

"Certainly, captain. Come on in. I'll be with you in a second."

Steve enters the room with an air of purpose, or attempts to at least, but the moment he finds himself standing in front of Fury's desk, he starts to fidget again, heart in his throat.

Fury doesn't make him wait long. He looks up from the dossiers open on the desk in front of him, and waits expectantly.

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but the words don't come out. He coughs to clear his throat again, but the words, it seems, are stuck there.

Fury taps his fingers,

"Sometime today would be nice, captain, I'm a busy man."

And that's enough.

He clears his throat, louder and more forcefully this time, and straightens, hands linked behind his back. He picks a point on the desk to stare at, though his eyes aren't focused, and decides to just let the words come out.

"Sir, I, uh, I wanted to officially declare my intentions, and now's as good a time as any."

Fury raises an eyebrow.

He takes a deep breath and ploughs on.

"Stark and I are-"

And Fury holds up a hand before he can get the most important word out, and simply says,

"I know."

Steve blinks.

"Sorry?"

"I said, I know."

"You… know?"

Fury raises an eyebrow again in amusement.

"Yes, captain,  _I know_. I know everything. How d'you think I got this job?"

He smiles like a crocodile.

"And correct me if I'm wrong," he continues, "but the next word to come out of your mouth was gonna be "involved", or "dating", or something delightfully archaic that means the same thing, wasn't it?"

"No, wait," he pauses, pretending to look thoughtful, "Was it "courting"? Tell me it was "courting"."

He folds his arms, the slightest smile on his face, "You do realise you're gonna break Coulson's heart?"

Steve can do nothing but blink and flap his mouth for a moment before he manages, somehow, to compose himself and rein in the shock.

He snaps his mouth shut, and doesn't see a smile twitch at the corners of the director's own because his eyes are fixed firmly on his  _suddenly_   _utterly fascinating_  boots.

Fury steeples his hands in front of his chin.

"Captain, I feel the need to remind you that I am in command of an extremely powerful intelligence organisation, and frankly, I think I'd be doing a pretty poor job of it if I couldn't even figure out that two of my special superhero response team were - how should I put this -  _shacked up_."

Steve blushes all the way down to his roots.

"I assume that is what you meant to say, before I so rudely interrupted your sterling impression of a goldfish," Fury adds.

Steve finally finds his voice again.

"Yes, sir," he says quietly.

Fury smiles.

"Well then, you have my blessing-"

Steve blinks in shock, before a smile begins to spread across his own face-

"- on one condition."

And the smile falters and drops as Steve anticipates the worst.

Fury holds up a finger, "If your personal affairs begin to affect your professional obligations, in  _any_  way, shape,  _or_  form, you and I will have a  _serious_  problem, and a  _very_ uncomfortable conversation. Do not force me to have that conversation, captain, because I can assure you, you will  _not_  enjoy it."

Steve nods, unable to say anything other than, "I understand, sir."

"Good." Fury smiles again, "Now, shouldn't you be getting some sleep? You said you wanted to be back out at dawn."

Steve nods again, and Fury returns it with a "Dismissed, captain."

Through the nerves, the rush of adrenaline, and the pounding of his heart in his ears, Steve almost smiles, unsure quite how he ever thought Fury wouldn't have noticed.

"Thank you, sir."

And Fury shoos away him with a wave of his hand, eyes already back on his paperwork.

**...**

Tony is jabbing away at some project or other on the tablet in his hand when Steve finally wanders back into their quarters.

He drops it on the table immediately when he sees Steve come in; face-down, of course, so Steve can't see that he was actually tapped into the security feed from Fury's office and had watched the entire scene as it unfolded.

_His curiosity really was going to get him killed one day._

The captain stops in the doorway, that little crease in his forehead, and Tony sighs, bracing himself for bad news.

"So, how'd it go?" he asks, attempting to affect nonchalance, and probably failing miserably at it because his heart has lodged itself somewhere in his throat, making his voice come out a tad too shrill.

The captain blinks, and his frown deepens as he puts two and two together and gets that Tony knows  _exactly_  what just happened. He sighs, reminding himself for the hundredth time that it is  _never_  wise to underestimate Tony Stark.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, then throws his hand up in defeat.

"He kinda, uh… already knew."

Tony is silent for roughly half a second and then bursts out laughing, his relief palpable.

"Course he did," he wheezes, shaking his head, "Course he did."

"I was an idiot for thinking that he wouldn't," Steve admits, unable to stop the smile curling across his lips as Tony chokes back the laughter.

Tony grins, "Can't argue with that," and motions him over, hands immediately sliding round his waist and stroking his back through the fabric of his shirt.

Steve tucks a lock of hair back behind Tony's ear.

"You need a haircut," he tells him.

Tony shrugs, "I kinda like it…"

"…'sides," he smiles, wickedly, "gives  _you_  something more to hold onto…"

Steve blushes involuntarily.

" _Tony_ -"

But the billionaire is grinning, and Steve knows it was totally deliberate. He cuffs him lightly round the back of the head.

"You are incorrigible."

"You'd be shocked at how often I get that …"

"Probably not…"

Steve leans down, hands either side of Tony's hips, and Tony tilts his head, tucking himself into the crook of the captain's neck. He's still smiling.

"Y'know," he mouths against Steve's skin, "We still have, like, 3 hours?, before we have to head back out…"

"Uhuh?" Steve murmurs, distracted by insistent lips pressing kisses to his throat.

He feels Tony's smile widen, "Just saying… There's a lot we could do in 3 hours…"

Steve snakes a hand round Tony's back and drags him across the counter 'til the billionaire is flush against him. Tony wraps his legs round the captain's hips.

"Taking the initiative, captain," he murmurs, "I like that."

"I'm aware," Steve says, the slightest movement of his hips highlighting  _just_  how aware he is of what he's inspiring in the crotch of Tony's slacks.

The billionaire tugs on Steve's lower lip, and kisses it as it reddens.

"So, dawn's in 3 hours, what despicable activities should we get up to in the meantime?"

"Nothing that'll leave me too tired," Steve says, a little sadly, into his mouth, and Tony pulls away, frowning.

"But that means no orgasms! You get all sleepy and dopey when you come. Like a, like a… gentle giant."

Steve raises an eyebrow at that.

"Excuse-?"

Suddenly, Tony's eyes light up.

" _Unless_ …"

Steve shakes his head, laughing, "Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no. That look means trouble, Tony; I know that look."

Tony smiles wickedly and slides his fingers up under Steve's shirt. The captain leans into his touch without thinking.

Affecting a sigh, Steve asks, "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

Tony raises a single eyebrow, "Not necessarily. Just, uh, think of it as an experiment."

"Tony-" Steve warns.

"Oh trust me, it's nothing you won't like," the billionaire smiles slyly.

"I'm getting increasingly concerned here," Steve replies, but Tony presses up against him, lips connecting with his, hands now curled on his hips, pulling him closer.

"You're plotting something evil," Steve mutters, when Tony lets him come up for air.

The billionaire just shrugs, "Debatable. Evil is subjective."

"Better exercise my authority while I still can then, huh?" Steve says, and before Tony can protest, Steve scoops him up, Tony's legs still firmly hooked around his waist, and takes him the few short steps to the bunks.

"Mmm, not particularly spacious, but cosy. Steve, darling, you shouldn't have," Tony jokes, as the captain sinks down onto the cot, Tony safe in his lap.

"Anything for you, sweetcheeks," Steve replies, teasing. He runs his hands down Tony's back, slowly over his hips and along his thighs.

"Sweetcheeks?" Tony laughs at the endearment, then hums distractedly at the pressure of the captain's fingers.

Moments pass as they chase backwards and forwards, Tony pulling at Steve's lip with his teeth, Steve holding back in retaliation until Tony is breathing just a little too hard, and Tony suddenly captures Steve's jaw in his hand and snares his lips again. There is no rush, their hands simply wandering over and under fabric, brushing on skin, pressing and slipping, searching.

Steve lets his fingers disappear in Tony's hair as they breathe, nosing against Tony's cheek.

"Remember that time you threw me through a bookcase?" Tony murmurs, lazily.

Steve nods, running a thumb across Tony's swollen lips.

"You were asking for that."

Tony nods, smiling, "Guess I was. Didn't know how else to get you to touch me, I suppose…"

He slips his tongue under the pad of Steve's thumb and sucks it into his mouth. Steve's breath falters and Tony cruelly rolls his hips down against him, but he doesn't look away. Steve stares, incredulous.

"You are pure evil, Tony Stark."

The billionaire just smirks at that.

"Only on Wednesdays."

So Steve rocks up against him, even if only to wipe that smirk off his face, to see it replaced with those lips just parted, pink tongue sliding wet across them. He can't tear his eyes away from that. Tony's fingers find themselves curled in the captain's hair, pulling him forward into a kiss.

"Remember that time I had to carry you to bed because you were drunk out of your skull?" Steve asks in return, a moment later.

To which Tony just chuckles, "Uh, unsurprisingly, no, Cap, I don't."

"Well I do," Steve says, kissing him softly, but deeply enough to steal the breath from his lungs for just a while.

Tony eventually pulls back.

"Hey, come on, that was the first and  _last_  time that happened," he complains, pretending to be put out and sticking his lips out, pouting. Steve catches his bottom lip and sucks gently. Tony responds by shifting his hips in Steve's lap again, that perfectly cruel motion, and they brush through the layers of fabric, drawing a brief hitch in the breath of both.

Tony makes the softest noise above his head when Steve tucks his fingers under the band of his slacks and yanks him closer, and by God, Steve loves every sound he makes. He rubs his thumbs across Tony's hipbones, and Tony shifts above him, not quite impatient yet.

"Hey, Tony."

"Mhmm?"

The captain brushes another stray hair from Tony's eyes. Tony blinks slowly, drowsily, holding his gaze. Steve can't stop himself pressing a kiss to each of those heavy eyelids, dark eyelashes brushing ticklish against his skin. He pulls back, and tilts Tony's chin up.

"That was also the first time you told me you liked me, y'know," he murmurs.

The billionaire frowns, "What? No it wasn't. First time I told you I liked you was on the roof that time, remember? After my daring escape from the recovery room?"

Steve shakes his head, another smile creeping lazily across his features.

"Nope. You were asleep, actually; and babbling. Curled up in your thousand-count sheets, wearing nothing but those ridiculous Superman boxers of yours because I couldn't coax you into pyjamas-"

"Hey, shut up, those are my favourite pair-"

"And bam," Steve continues, regardless, "You just said it."

Tony has the decency to blush.

"Shut up, I did not."

"I think you'll find you did."

"Bullshit."

Steve laughs, running the backs of his fingers gently across Tony's cheek, "No word of a lie, Tony. You rolled over in your sleep and said you liked me. God's honest truth. And my heart was going so fast…" He chuckles, "Course, you didn't hear me say I liked you back…"

The captain pauses, "Though at the time I still didn't know exactly what my saying it even meant…"

Tony bites the inside of his lip as a vague memory tries to surface.

He laughs softly after a moment.

"You know what?" he says, quietly, "I think I did hear you."

The corners of his lips pull up in a smile, and the captain's fingers snake up to tangle with his, palms pressed together.

And the look on Steve's face is so genuine, so earnest, so sincere, that Tony feels an ache grasp his heart and squeeze.

But it isn't painful.

It hurts, but his heart still thuds strong and sure in his chest. It's a good pain; a pang, perhaps. And he feels something else settle and solidify there, coiled warm, anchored in his heart, below the cool, smooth metal of the machine keeping him alive.

Tony smiles, and it is like sunshine, hot and bright, blinding, dazzling, and Steve would give anything to see Tony look like that always. A familiar warmth swells deep in his chest, radiating through him, and he can't stop himself crushing his mouth to Tony's, a clash of lips, tongue, and teeth, a subtle edge of desperation. He kisses him, desperate to somehow cement the swelling heat in his chest, to anchor the feeling, the burning ache that Tony awakes in him.

He needs him so much closer.

And he doesn't know if Tony will ever be close enough to satisfy that feeling.

Tony kisses him back, just as desperately, and in moments both are panting laboured breaths. Tony's hand strokes the captain's temple, and for a moment his eyes look almost wet. They look at each other, quiet for a time.

"If you keep looking at me like that, Steve, I might die," Tony murmurs then, a little thickly, voice catching on his name.

And the captain's heartbeat falters.

His fingers brush across Tony's neck to the pulse thrumming underneath, and sure enough, Tony's heart is fast and thick through the skin; strong, yes, and steady, but fluttering like a caged bird.

Steve kisses him again, unable to keep himself away, and his hands wander, slow, taking in every fold of fabric, every inch of him; the thin, soft skin of his wrists, the curve of his spine under his shirt, the hard edges of the reactor nestled in his bones.

And God but he wants him, so much more than flesh can contain; wants to hold him, wants to cherish and worship him, and wants to prove it, prove the depths of it, this feeling that he knows he can't outrun, that he couldn't even if he did want to. And God knows he never would.

He wants to know every inch of the man in front of him, because he desperately, painfully, blindingly, and  _completely_   _loves_  every  _inch_  of him-

And he stops.

Because he can feel laughter bubbling up in his throat that he can't quite force down.

He has known for  _so long_ , and has never let himself say it out loud. He's murmured it into Tony's hair, whispered it at the shell of his ear, mouthed it against the hollow of his throat, breathed it to the sweep of his hips, but he has  _never_  said it in full voice. Because he feels like the words might break him as he speaks them.

But he knows full well that one of these days it will rush up in his chest like champagne bubbles, catching in his throat, tripping on his tongue, and it will come pouring out of him.

And one day, he will let it.

He will say it without hesitation, without doubt, without restraint. He will say it over and over and over again and kiss it into every inch of him until he believes it, until he cannot doubt it, until there is no conceivable hesitation, not one iota of disbelief.

Tony will never be unsure again, because Steve will burn it into his heart, brand it upon his soul. He will etch his devotion onto the very fabric of his bones.

He will keep him safe, he will cherish him, and he will love him. Until his bones and body are dust, and longer, because Steve  _refuses_  to believe that Death is a black, empty, bottomless void that something as pure and bright as human love cannot transcend.

And it hits him like a hurricane.

All the time in the world could never be enough to put the emotion that consumes him then into words.

But Tony sees it, glinting in his eyes, hiding in his smile, though it is but the barest, palest imitation of the true fire with which it burns.

He sees it.

And suddenly, like a wave of cold water engulfing him, like a wrenching hand wrapped tight round his spine, like cold fingers reaching into his chest, to steal his fragile heart and _squeeze it 'til it bursts_ …

Tony Stark is terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if y'all ain't listened to Mumford & Sons ~ I Will Wait yet, then i suggest you get off your behinds and do so! it's a corker! n.n


	17. Something's Gotta Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HELLO BABBUS! n.n i am returned at last, with a new episode of angst-filled, pain-and-creys-inducing fiction that may or may not be (or lead to) the greatest sobfest i have ever had the misfortune to write.
> 
> yes. that is a warning.
> 
> there is nothing happy about this chapter, but i promise you the pain is necessary for both setting the scene for the final arc and for creating the depth of emotion i think these characters and their relationship deserve. ;w;
> 
> *ahem* so! with no further ado whatsoever, i give you Something's Gotta Give ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do apologise for this development profusely, and yet i can't bring myself to regret this chapter, much as it was IMMENSELY PAINFUL to write. please forgive a poor old writer her plot ;n; i promise there will be happier times ahead, and a rather smutty epilogue that i've had written for months! (there is light at the end of the tunnel! rejoice!)
> 
>  
> 
> recommended listening: Miserably Loving You ~ Artist Vs. Poet, No Light No Light ~ Florence & the Machine, Slady Ways ~ Glass Caves.

 

Steve sits alone in the kitchen, nursing a mug. This sight itself is not uncommon, nor is it out of place, but rather the nature of it, is. His sigh echoes round the empty room and he blows on coffee he doesn't want with breath he doesn't need. In silence broken only by the ticking of a clock somewhere, Steve Rogers thinks, face screwed up in a frown.

After bolting like a spooked horse, Tony hadn't come back to their quarters the other night, and when Steve had swung by his lab to check on him after his rather disturbingly abrupt departure, the door wouldn't open. He'd swiped his hand, his ID card, let the retinal scanner flash and blink, and each time they had come up red, the word "DENIED" glaring at him in angry, flashing letters on the access pad.

Tony had changed the access protocols.

And Steve didn't understand. He'd tried the intercom, he'd tried knocking, he was close to shoving a folded note under the door but then he'd remembered that it was sealed tight, an airlock or some such thing. So he'd frowned and he'd sighed, and he'd left. Now that he thought about it, Tony's behaviour may have been off from the moment the alarms sounded some two nights before.

He'd put it down to the fact that just as he'd been about to take Tony's face in his hands and kiss him blind with that strange fire burning in his heart, the sirens had wailed overhead, and both of them had sprung into action automatically, a response as natural for them by now as the simple inhalation of air. What Steve hadn't noticed was that Tony had moved the barest fraction of a second slower than he normally would have as they both raced to answer the call. Steve's mind was already elsewhere as he scrabbled for his suit, already treading that constant line between fear and focus again.

And what he failed to notice was that Tony was suddenly skittish.

This on its own would not have been enough to warrant concern - God knows Tony has his crazy moments as much as the rest of them, maybe even more, what with his inclinations towards the mad scientist thing - but something was different this time.

For what it's worth, they had dealt with the threat swiftly and cleanly; a minor infraction on A.I.M's part. The usual goons were defeated easily, with very little bloodshed, and were now languishing in some SHIELD penitentiary centre somewhere.

But since their return to base, not only had the billionaire's skittishness increased tenfold, Tony was now studiously avoiding him.

And Steve can't, for the life of him, understand why. Sure, Tony has been working on locating the missing SHIELD agents - still is - but that doesn't -  _can't_  - explain why he has shut him out like this. What has he done wrong?

The captain sits alone, cup of coffee now cold in his hands, untouched, because as of that morning, Tony hadn't spoken to him in days.

And he has no idea what he's done to deserve it. The one person that could tell him won't see him.

He won't even talk to him.

 

 

. . .

The very next day, Tony appears at the morning meeting with a glass of whisky in his hand. Actually, to call it a glass would be a hideous understatement. It's less of a glass, and more of a bowl.

A bowl of whisky, and it's barely 10am.

Steve perches beside him warily, ready for him to bolt or freeze up or shut down. Tony hasn't let him get this close in days. He looks away from the whisky in Tony's hands.

"Tony," he asks softly, "What are you doing?"

And that's unfair of him, because the question is unjustly loaded. It says so little, and yet it asks so much.

Apparently, it asks more than Tony is willing to share.

"Had a rough night," Tony answers, almost coldly, and the flatness in his voice sends something curling in on itself deep inside Steve's stomach. Tony's lips are pressed tight together as he adds, "Nightmares."

And now Steve  _knows_  something isn't right. Tony  _used_  to drown his bad dreams in glass after glass of Scotch, but this wasn't like that. Tony hadn't needed to do that, not for a long while. Why would he, when Steve was there every night to hold him, to hush his terrified babblings, to chase the demons away? After a while, Steve's lips, hot and real against Tony's skin, cold from the night's terrors, was enough. That brief contact alone anchored him, centred him, reminded him where he was,  _who_  he was, and that he was still a part of this world. That he wasn't burning in a desert. That he wasn't bleeding out in the dirt. That he wasn't lying with a gaping hole in chest, watching helplessly as his life ebbed away, second after precious second.

His nightmares were not real. But Steve was. Smooth muscles, faint scars, from the beatings and bruises long since passed and faded; lips and tongue and touch. He was warm, flesh and blood, and he was real. And more than all of that, most important of all, he was his.

But somehow, for some unfathomable reason, Tony was denying himself that safety, the reassurance that Steve embodied, always. He had blocked Steve out. And he had let the whisky back in.

Tony's other demon.

From what Steve had gleaned from Pepper of the years before he'd known him, Tony had  _never_  restrained himself when it came to drink. He'd drowned himself in it from the moment he'd known what it was, and what it could do for him. The demon in the bottle - crimson, amber, gold, or colourless - crooked its finger, and Tony succumbed. He gave in to it because he needed it, or thought he did. He gave in to it because he needed to be numb, needed the blissful dullness that infested his limbs as he drained glass after glass, bottle after bottle. He needed something to silence his mind's chatter, to stuff his ears with cotton wool and pack his mouth with cloth to stifle how he screamed himself awake in the night. He needed it to blind him to the things he'd seen. The drink called, and Tony answered, because he was powerless not to.

Tony Stark was a functioning alcoholic, and Steve couldn't stand that it was true, that it still could be.

It made him sick to pit of his stomach, and it made him think of his father, that poor pathetic sot. He had drunk himself to death and the excuses had tripped from his lips time and time again, stumbling on the edge of his tongue, thick with alcohol, and stupid. He didn't want to be helped. He admitted himself that he was weak, the poor old fool. But worst of all, it made him think of Tony's own father, Howard. Another man, as much as Erskine himself, to whom Steve owed his very existence as he was today. His other creator, but more than that, his friend.

And Steve feels his heart ache a little more.

Something had changed Howard, in the years after Steve was gone. Something hardened him, made him cold, made him cruel. Howard had turned on his son, had beaten him and abused him, taunted him, punished him, for what Steve did not know, and he'd drowned his life in drink.

Tony was left with the scars of those choices, and they had changed him, forever.

Looking at him now, as he cradles that glass in his hand, as if it were as precious as his own shrapnel-torn heart in his chest, as necessary to keep him alive as the reactor buried deep in his bones, Steve wonders if his own "death" in the ice had been the turning point; the fork in the road, from which neither father nor son would return. The day the ice claimed him. Or so the world had thought.

If he had lived… If he had stayed at Howard's side, in his life… How different Howard could have been. How different  _Tony_  could have been.

Steve could have been his family, his friend. Steve could even have been his Godfather. And though the thought should raise a foul head of bile in his throat, or make his stomach pitch and turn it the immorality of it, instead, Steve wonders - with painful stinging sincerity, if Tony would have been happier for it. Tony's misery is as much his own by now, and the thought that, in another life, he could have spared him from it… Well. Steve clamps down on that possibility, because it hurts too much to think about.

Tony could have been happy.

Instead, this morning at 10:06, he watches him toss back another measure, watches him carelessly and unsteadily wipe the stray drops from his lips, watches him turn, to reach for the bottle again. And it hits him, really, in that moment.

Tony is drinking again.

This simple fact, this warning sign - blinking red, alarm bells sounding in his ears - sets Steve's nerves on edge. It burns him, this failure - almost, and he has to know  _why_.

Steve reaches a hand out to touch him- and Tony flinches away violently, gaze cold, clouded. For just a moment, Steve could swear he sees that vile amber liquid curling in the brown of Tony's eyes, though he knows it isn't real.

"Tony-" he tries, but he is not given the chance to speak.

His jaw clenched tight as he rips his hand away, Tony's fingers curl into a fist in his free hand. "Don't, Steve." He mutters.

A memory replays in the captain's head then, the dull thud of the realisation rapping against the cage of ribs around his beating heart. History repeating.

When he meets Tony's eyes again, they are chillingly blank. Steve's heart constricts in his chest as his hand hangs limp in the air, outstretched, still reaching, and Tony murmurs coldly,

"Just,  _don't_."

Fury clears his throat, and Tony turns away, eyes fixed on some distant space.

Steve honestly tries to focus on the briefing at hand, but there, standing inches away from Tony, though the distance feels like miles, he does not hear a single word of it. And it is with a heavy, heavy heart that it dawns on him.

That he may be watching Tony begin to unravel in front of his very eyes.

 

 

. . .

It doesn't take long for the arguments to start after that.

They're trivial at first. Tony's clothes lying on the floor instead of in the laundry basket. His tools tripping Steve up in the workshop, missing pencils, broken things. Steve's penchant for old music and older sensibilities, his tendency to get lost in thought and nostalgia, his "helpful" nagging.

Their fuses grow shorter with each passing day and the fallout of the arguments lasts longer after, hangs much more thickly in the air between them. The tension persists long after the argument is over, and dissipates slower and slower each time. They know what buttons to push, and push them they do, increasingly without mercy or restraint.

The arguments become less trivial, then. Doors slam - hard enough that the frame and walls around them shake and shudder, insults are thrown and parried and old wounds reopened, salt applied in sharp, stinging bursts. Grit infests the bitter wounds and they grow sick. The men grow tired.

They are cruel to each other, though Tony's sharp tongue and shorter temper add acid to the edge of his barbs; each sentence, each remark, jagged like barbed wire, tearing into the captain's skin. Steve meets his cruelty with silence. The judgment weighs heavy in his eyes, though, and Tony finds his hatred of it growing like a cancer within him as his skin burns with the wounds from a thousand stupid, petty things.

Steve corners him as he leaves his workshop one day, and there is desperation clear in his manner, his eyes, his voice. He blocks Tony's path with an arm.

"Tony, whatever I've done, I'm sorry. Can you  _please_  tell me what-"

"You haven't  _done_   _anything_ ," Tony spits. "You never  _do_   _anything_. Perfect Steve Rogers, never putting one foot wrong. What a saint." He says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He attempts to move around the captain and away but is ultimately unable to do so, finally snapping, "Get  _out_  of my  _way_ , Rogers.  _Leave me alone_. I don't want to look at you."

The bile in Tony's reply stuns him silent. Steve takes a step back before he realises, the movement involuntary as the words hit him like a punch to the gut. His voice comes out weak, pathetic in his own ears.

"What?"

And Tony hisses through gritted teeth, "I said, leave. me.  _alone_."

Steve shakes his head, stunned. "No. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on."

"Well then, you're gonna be waiting one hell of a long time, because I have  _nothing_ to say to you." Tony bites out, and Steve watches a vein jump in his temple, sees his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Tony looks like he wants to punch him.

"Tony, I don't understand-"

"I couldn't give less of a fuck what you  _understand_ , Rogers! Now get the hell out of my way!" Then, Tony actually shoves him.

Steve clenches his jaw and feels himself pulling up to his full height, squaring up to Tony and overshadowing the smaller man, as always, though the difference has never felt so large, or so painful. He hasn't needed to intimidate Tony like this in a very long time.

"No" is his simple reply. Tony makes a disgusted, angry noise, and it turns Steve's stomach. "What in God's name has gotten into you, Tony?"

"Sure as shit isn't you," Tony snarls, and Steve has absolutely no idea what to say to that.

He puts his face inches from Tony's. "You wanna do this the hard way? Fine by me. No skin off my nose. It's obvious you don't intend to cooperate, so just tell me one thing before I put you through that wall. Tell me why."

"Why  _what_?" Tony spits, bored of the conversation. His lip is curled up in distaste.

Steve clenches his fists again, feeling the sickening urge to smack that look right off of Tony's face for the first time in so long.

"Tell me why you haven't spoken to me, haven't  _seen_  me, haven't even put yourself in the same  _room_  as me, for nearly  _two weeks_."

Tony shakes his head tightly. "Don't think so, pal."

Steve's gloves screech, fingers to palm, as he tightens his grip. This is a hideous re-enactment of that awful moment on the helicarrier as Loki's staff manipulated them, but now, there is no manipulation, no magic, no cosmic power, just the nauseating bitterness of a mistrust that only comes from the souring of a bond that runs too deep. The pain of the barbs of that first encounter are the mere prick of a pin compared to the searing agony of those uttered now, their minds unclouded by outside influences. The words they speak now are their own, and both men know that.

And they hurt so much more because of it.

"Answer me, Stark," Steve grinds out.

Tony's eyes narrow. "Back. off."

"Not a chance."

" _Fine_ ," Tony spits, "I'm not afraid of you. You wanna take this outside, pretty boy?"

"What I  _want_  is the  _truth_ ," snaps Steve.

"Well, you're not gonna get it!" Tony laughs in his face. "Now step aside before I  _make you_!" Tony's chin juts out, the challenge clear.

Steve does not let himself be goaded into stupid fights by such petty, pathetically childish attempts, but this time it's different. Because this time, he's compromised.

Because if there is one person he cannot control his actions around, it's Tony.

He speaks calmly and coldly, and his voice is clipped and too harsh. Restrained but clear, he says, "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what I want to know."

He gives him one warning then, muttering "Tony-"

And when Tony doesn't back down, when Tony actually swings for his head with a snarl on his lips - on target enough but clumsy with whatever emotion he is hiding behind the rage, behind the vitriol - Steve has no choice but to dodge, and to drop him. Tony hits the floor with a sickening crunch, and swallowing back a rush of bile, Steve doesn't have to look down to know there is hot blood spattered across his hand.

Tony is out cold for an hour, and when he wakes up, he is alone.

But there is a chair beside his bed, and a coffee, barely-touched and still warm, perched on the nightstand beside him. A folded scrap of paper beneath it shows the scrawl of a single phrase – " _I'm sorry_."

Tony smashes the mug into the floor, and his scream of rage echoes down the empty corridor outside.

 

 

. . .

Tony doesn't come to Steve's quarters anymore, and if anyone cared to watch the surveillance footage, they would see that neither man slept well, or for more than a few hours at a stretch. Steve spends nearly every waking hour in the training room, or as far away from Stark Tower as he can manage. After a while though, even the training room proves too much. He begins to frequent the old gym where Fury first contacted him about the Cube, all that time ago. When he told him he should have left it in the ocean. That Howard should have procured the Cube during his search for the missing captain is just another reason Steve can't sleep at night for the guilt. The cursed thing should have been left to rot in the frozen wastes, lost to the black ocean floor and safe from mankind's' grasping hands for a might longer. Instead, that  _thing_  continues to haunt him, to dog his steps, to plague his every waking hour. Even in dreams he cannot escape it; each one tinged with its unearthly blue glow, a threat of ice and oblivion whispering in his ears.

Steve can't stop thinking about Hydra, about Zola, about the Red Skull. He wakes in the night more often than not, screaming and drenched in sweat, fever-hot but teeth clacking from phantom cold, curled in on himself, tangled in blankets. He wakes with ice deep in his bones, and Tony isn't there to breathe warmth back into him. Sometimes he feels like he never truly thawed at all. That he is permafrost, and he carries the Arctic Tundra with him, always. That he will never be free of the cold.

Tony used to soothe these horrors from him, scrub his hands up and down the captain's arms, murmuring soft words of comfort, hands and voice imbuing Steve's cold bones with a gentle heat, a heat that never went bone-deep, but close enough. It kept the ice at bay for just a little longer. Steve hadn't had a nightmare in months.

But then the arguments had started, and the dreams began again.

 

 

. . .

One day, the team opens their meeting room doors to find a blazing row in progress. Words fly like daggers, each hitting its mark, in a vicious, relentless torrent. Tony violently upends a chair, roaring something that sees the others start with shock at the cruelty in his words. Tony's answering glare is searing, and he stalks from the room, rage radiating from him in palpable waves, shoving his way past them like they are nothing. When they turn to the captain, he has not moved. His eyes are glazed as he stares at some unfocussed spot where Tony was standing not a moment before, leaning forward into the back of Fury's chair, resting against it like it is the only thing keeping him standing, like he has no strength left in him at all. His knuckles are bright white against the leather. When he steps back at a soft word from Natasha, they all see the grooves in the hard chairback; his grip so strong his fingers have left deep indents there. Indents that are proof of the emotion bubbling just below the surface of his skin. His jaw is set so hard that Natasha silently thinks that he will break his teeth, but none of them say a word to him, for fear he will not hear it. He will not, and he cannot, in fact. He is deaf, blind to them. He is dumb and mute and he would run as far from this wretched place as his legs would take him if he could only make them move from that spot. But he is rooted; not with fear, though it would be a lie to say he did not feel that too, but with anger, and something akin to grief, a burden so familiar it aches to feel it again for someone he loves so deeply.

He says not a word to them, simply moves, the slow, agonising dragging of feet of a man who has not well slept or eaten, rested nor drunk, for far too long. A man who has laboured under the weight of something he fears he cannot hope to control, and yet who refuses to relent, to give up, to surrender. He will not admit defeat, even in the face of Tony's inhumanity.

Tony is a tempest, and Steve is drowning in the vicious waves of his mercurial storm, drowning, all alone, lost at sea.

And watching it all, Fury simply waits.

 

 

. . .

The captain looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. His skin is haggard, almost grey, and his eyes are dull, the light in them smothered, snuffed out.

He barely registers Clint saying his name, even on the archer's sixth attempt to catch his attention. " _Hey._   _ **Cap**_ _-!_ "

" _What_?" he snaps violently, biting the word out with a snap of his teeth.

Clint glares at him, furtively, angry. "Jesus, don't bite my head off. Just telling you we're due to land in 5."

The captain doesn't raise his gaze from the metal wall opposite his seat.

"Fine."

Clint backs out of the hull, shaking his head. He slides back into his seat in the cockpit and Natasha addresses him without turning her head, "Still monosyllabic?"

"Still monosyllabic," he nods, and fastens the seat buckles across his chest, hands back at the controls. "Least he's not catatonic anymore," he adds after a moment.

Natasha looks at him. "Doesn't make it any easier. Seeing him like that."

"You  _ever_  seen him like that?"

She shakes her head.

"No, me neither," he says, then lowers his voice, as if Steve could hear them through the roar of the engines, the hiss of the air rushing past outside, even with his enhanced body, "And let me tell you something for free; I  _do_   _not_   _like it_."

"Not a lot we can do, Clint," she sighs, "Better if we just stay out of it."

The archer makes a face. "Doesn't mean I gotta like it."

"No one likes it." She replies, quietly, "What's to like? Mama and Papa aren't speaking. They must've had the bust-up of the century."  
  
"Like that time Cap went to fish Tony out of his drunken stupor? When he walked in on him…  _y'know_ …" Clint makes an obscene gesture and Natasha raises an eyebrow.

Quietly, she says, "That, but probably a thousand times worse." She sighs then. "Something must've happened. Something they're not telling us."

Clint glances at her, "Got any ideas what?"

She shakes her head, almost a little sadly. "Not a one."

A voice suddenly crackles through their headsets. "Quinjet, you are clear for landing. Proceed to Bay 4."

"Roger that," Natasha answers, tilting the controls downwards, easing them into their descent.

"Still don't see why they wouldn't let  _me_  drive," Clint grouses, half-heartedly.

Natasha barks a laugh, a thin attempt at humour in her tone as she lands the jet a little roughly. "Clint, after the way you "drove" in Manhattan? I wouldn't be surprised if Fury never let you behind the stick of a vehicle  _ever again_."

Clint scowls. "Oh lay off, Tasha, I was doin' the best I could with a busted up plane. Like to see you have done any better…"

She smirks properly this time, flicking switches and killing the engines. "One day, maybe you will."

"Oh goodie," Clint gripes, "so looking forward to  _that_ …"

Natasha grins at him as she unbuckles herself and slips from her seat. Clint attempts to release himself from his own belt in increasing frustration as the mechanism catches and sticks.

"…not."

 

 

. . .

_"Where do you get off on doing this to me, Tony? To yourself? All you're doing is sabotaging something that-"_

_"Steve-"_

_"Do you think this is a game? Is this a_ game _to you? Am I just another toy for you to tinker with and leave behind when you finally get bored of me?_ What am I to you?! _"_

_"Steve, stop it, I-!"_

_"God damn it, Tony, just ANSWER ME!" Steve roars into the silence. His chest heaves. "I deserve to know why you're doing this!"_

_After fraught seconds that pass like days, Tony's voice is so quiet that Steve strains to hear it over his own blood thundering in his ears, the frantic pulse of his own heart. He can hear the cracks, the panic. He can hear them spreading, bleeding into his voice. He will not beg, not yet. But in some things, he is just a man, like everyone else. And a man can only be pushed so far._

_The pain the sentence causes Tony to utter is plain as day on his face, etched in the lines at his eyes, in the downward curve of his now unsmiling mouth; that mouth that was so often turned in a smile so bright it could dim the sun to compare them. Even the memory hurts._

_His words escape him slowly, as if it hurts him to speak. In three words, he explains a lifetime. In three words, he says it all._

_"I'm broken, Steve." He chokes out._

_And the captain shakes his head, reaching. "Tony, I don't care. I don't care if you're broken."_

_"Yes you do."_

_"No, I-"_

_"You can't_ fix this _!" Tony shouts, choking on the words, and Steve realises in that moment that he is watching him crack, watching him break, right in front of his eyes. Tony shakes his head tightly, and there is a curse unspoken in the hard line of his mouth, in the deep brown irises that pierce Steve without mercy, accusing and pleading both, and it clutches at Steve's own fragile heart like ice._

 _"You can't_ fix me! _" Tony repeats, so very quietly_ _._

 _And his voice crumbles_ _._

_Steve has never heard a man sound so vulnerable, so fragile, in all his years. He wants to reach out, but he knows that he can't. Because Tony will run._

_He can't fix this. Because Tony_ will not let him _._

_And that hurts him more than he ever thought anything could._

 

 

. . .

_Thud._

A clean swipe with the flat of his left palm sends his opponent's ears ringing viciously in his head.

_Thud._

A sharp fist upwards into the soft swell of his opponent's stomach knocks the wind from his lungs in a hoarse whine.

_Thud._

A knee driven hard into unguarded tender space between his opponent's legs sends him abruptly to his knees.

_Thud._

Foreheads meet with a crack like two boulders colliding as his opponent slumps in silent agony, ugly mouth twisted.

_Thud._

His opponent's body hits the floor, unconscious and sprawling.

_Opponent incapacitated. Threat neutralised. Simulation complete. Continue?_

"End program," Steve mutters.

An alarm sounds in the training room.

Alone in the centre of the floor, Steve's shoulders curve in a slump, and he pants heavily, blinking the sweat from his eyes. Sand spills from the rent punching bag lying in front of him, its grainy entrails spreading slowly across the tiled floor, a hole torn like a gaping wound in its side.

Steve's hands, like his whole body, are shaking. He lifts one, watches it shudder with the effort of that simple movement, and sees the beads of blood that adorn his knuckles now. He doesn't know when he started to bleed. He doesn't even know how long he's been here.

The punching bag that lies pathetic and broken on the floor in front of him is smeared with garish red stains from his injured fists. He clenches them slowly, eyes staring at them, focusing and unfocusing. His knuckles sting where he has abraded the skin, the flesh now raw and pink, weeping clear liquid. Something hot brushes his cheek and as he blinks he feels something fall. Only when he sees the droplets splash against his damaged hands does he realise that they are tears.

His laboured breaths ring loudly in the silence of the cavernous training room, and in that moment, Steve Rogers looks very small.

And slumped on his knees in the darkness, he is very tired indeed.

 

 

. . .

They barely speak now, and they do not touch. It is such a stark contrast to the obvious affection and ease of manner they displayed before that the difference is shocking to all that encounter it. It reminds the others all too clearly of the initial stretch before the Manhattan Incident. Prior to that point, the two men had clashed as a result of first impressions, vastly impaired by Loki's influence and manipulation. Now, they have no such excuse. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Stark and the captain know each other inside and out after all this time and everything they have done.

But somehow, for reasons unknown to even the captain himself, that trust has soured, like rotting fruit in the stages far beyond the decaying sweetness. The tension that has arisen in its stead leaves a sour taste on the tongue of all, and it is both palpable and inescapable. It hangs in the air, thick and cloying, utterly poisonous.

The strain it puts on the team is apparent. In the field, they are clumsy, uncoordinated. To say they were inefficient now would be an understatement of the highest order. They trip over each other's feet; they are slow, difficult, like stuck joints, broken cogs. Whereas before they were a well-oiled machine, reading each other's movements and responding seemingly without thought, in automatic process, now, they graze and clash, obstruct, and sometimes outright destroy. The comms are static, silence, and shouts, in turn. It is disastrous. Soon enough, the Avengers are a mere shadow of their former selves, and the world knows it.

And there are some in particular that are only too happy to make the absolute utmost of that development.

Fury calls them to a meeting, their final meeting as they soon learn, and informs them in no uncertain terms that the Avengers are to disband, their recent failure to prevent a terrorist attack in the Middle East that claimed the lives of nearly an entire regiment of the British army a clear signal that they are unfit for active duty.

His words rang hollow in Steve's ears. He had  _never_  been retired from service for failure to complete a mission. Feeling sick, he nodded to the director and exited the room as swiftly and calmly as he possibly could, though he was shaking with anger. He didn't ask permission to leave the helicarrier, just commandeered a jet and left. No one stopped him, and no one asked where he was going. Despite the team's failure, they still trusted him.

As he watches the jet speed past the observation deck, Fury quietly asks Natasha to keep an eye on the captain, and the spy agrees, nodding silently.

Steve turns the jet to California, the meeting replaying over and over in his mind; the cold dismissal in Fury's voice, and the wordless acceptance of the team an admission of their guilt. He is utterly furious.

Tony hadn't even deigned to show up.

 

 

. . .

Hours later, Steve finds himself slumped on the steps of Tony's Malibu house, barely remembering how he got there. He hears a click behind him, and a familiar voice sighs. The click of heels on the pale stone brings them closer to where Steve sits, and they lower themselves to crouch beside him. He drags his eyes up to meet theirs, the mere effort of that movement exhausting beyond belief.

Steve sighs when he sees the expression on Pepper's face.

"How are you?" she asks gently, aware of the pointlessness of the question, but asking it regardless.

Steve cannot summon the energy to shrug, and so the movement is stilted, unfinished. His response is incomplete, and that says it all.

There is a weight, a sadness, in Pepper's eyes, and her voice is soft when she speaks next.

"Why do you do this to each other, Steve?"

He snorts, and both the sound and the movement hurt him. But it's just another dull pain to add to the list.

" _We_  don't," he grinds out. "This is  _all_  Tony."

He sighs, fingers carding through his hair and clutching it in fistfuls. In that single exhale of breath is the sound of a man carrying the weight of the world.

"And I can't for the life of me understand  _why it's happening_."

"Steve-" Pepper intones softly, but he's pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, and she pretends not to notice the dampness glittering on his cheek.

His voice is hoarse, rattling up from his throat, and it is so very quiet.

"He won't see me."

Pepper purses her lips and settles down on the step beside him then, drawing her knees up and folding her hands in her lap. The captain's fingers curl tight against his brow and he says thickly, "He won't even  _speak_  to me, Pepper. What am I supposed to  _do_?"

And as if it's that simple, she says, "Not give up on him."

The rage wells up in him like the tide at her words,

" _I can't get_ near _him_ ,  _for God's sake!_   _What the hell does he even-?!_ "

The tightness in his shoulders, still shaking ever so slightly, betrays only the barest glimpse of his anger. His grip on its reins is slipping, for just a fraction of a moment, and he lets it. He wants to lash out, wants to scream and curse, wants to  _let_  his frustration come howling and shrieking out into the world, because he doesn't know how he can contain it for a single second longer –

And Pepper's eyes are dark and sad then because, by God, she _knows_.

She  _knows_  Tony, has known him for years, far longer than Steve. And she has been  _through_  this so many times before, he knows that, he can see it now in the pale lines that frame her eyes, can almost see the phantom tracks in her skin that the tears she has shed for him over the years have left, invisible imprints that speak more than words ever could. She's been with Tony through the worst of it – the best of it, too. But it is the worst that they share in this moment. The common knowledge and sentiment of what it is to bear the brunt of Tony's recklessness, his cruelty rushing and beating against them like they are but a rock caught in the endless sweep of that tide, wearing, terrible, and infinite.

Pepper smiles at him after a moment, a thin, worn curve of her lips, hammered, refined, distilled from  _years_  of coping with Tony and the utter madness that has shrouded him all his life. Some days Steve cannot believe she could have survived it.

"Just give him time, Steve," she says, so quietly, "Don't give up on him just yet."

She tilts her head up to the darkening sky, the clouds blood red and blush pink as the sun dips below the horizon, and murmurs, "It's always darkest before the dawn."

And Steve begins to understand just what this incredible woman must have been for Tony all those years. A rock in Tony's sea; unbowed, unbroken, for all the harm he has done her, all the pain he has caused. The sleepless nights, the panicked calls, the endless damage control. Pepper has been loyal, through everything, and she is still standing.

And yet, now, looking from the other side of it all, Steve honestly cannot blame her for leaving. It was self-preservation as much as anything else.

He feels like driftwood, battered by an angry sea, without hope, with no sight of land, and he is spinning and drowning in those relentless waves, dragging him under, over and over again. He slowly realises that he has wrapped his arms around himself, knees – like Pepper's – tucked up under his chin. He is rocking slightly and he doesn't know when his breathing got so desperate, so harsh, or so shallow.

"Want me to make you something?" Pepper asks suddenly, voice soft, and now her hand is gentle against his back, small, soothing circles against the tension in his skin. She's treating him like a child and he would snap at her again, push her hand away, shout. He would do all those things and worse, save for how much he needs that right now, her hand on him, anchoring him to the world as the maelstrom rocks him.

He feels tight as a coiled spring, bones aching, skin stretched too thin across them, and all the pain crawls under the surface of him like ants, marching onwards, circling round and round, patterns of anger and impotence being tread each moment into the deepest parts of him by a thousand phantom feet. He's all tied up in knots, and he  _doesn't know how_  to unpick himself. He's hurting,  _so_   _badly_  hurting, tight, tired, and angry, and the one person who could calm him is the one who left him this way.

And he  _hates it_.

His fingers crack as he prises them from his own upper arms, and he brushes Pepper's hands away with those stiff fingers, too brusque, too sharp. He doesn't mean to, but he's so brittle, like cracked glass, and he doesn't know how to move or speak without tearing at her with those sharp, jagged edges.

He feels like the edge of a knife, or that he walks one, he doesn't know. His mind is stretched too thin to tell. His scalp itches, chafes against his skull, and the inside of his head is full of wool packing, moths and dust. He is empty, save for the black rage that claws at the walls of his body that cages it. It burns him. Inside, he is scorched, cracked, and blackened. He pounds his fists against the walls of the cell of his own bones, and he just can't hold the pieces together anymore.

He feels hollow.

Like the ends of rough, worn canvas, he is fraying, desperately clutching with ever-weaker fingers at his own loose strings, at threads that work themselves free and disappear into nothingness. His hands grasp at empty air.

He is unravelling, one thread at a time.

And suddenly, the last thing he wants is this woman's pity.

His jaw aches in his mouth as he unlocks it, and his words are unnatural venom, bile, as he suddenly spits out, unable to stop himself, "Spare me your platitudes, Pepper."

He knows he should wince at the spite behind his words but he cannot. His body is too heavy, too tired to stop the vitriol that races through him, that threatens every moment to trip off his tongue and out into the world.

She recoils from him abruptly, real, true shock writ plain on her face. But for that moment, Steve just cannot find it in himself to care.

He has no emotion left but the pain and the anger that are eating him up, alive, from the inside out. There is a fog across his eyes as he straightens, and it seems as though he truly is his 90 years then, his back hunched, bones bent. He looks broken, at last.

The fire in him has been snuffed out. And it was naught but love that crushed the dying embers.

The words he speaks are quiet and bitter as he parts with them, and there is horror in Pepper's eyes as she hears their flat finality.

"You can't help me."

Her outstretched fingers reach for him, but the captain is gone.

 

 

. . .

_A voice whispers in the silence of the abyss, its words bending, shifting, warping all matter, all life in its path. Its words change the very fabric of reality around them, consuming._

_Green eyes, onyx pupil and emerald iris, then eyes like milk and pearl, blind white spaces, stare down from a thousand miles, from millennia, away. Pale, thin lips curl into twin cruel smiles._

_And chaos stirs in the darkness._

_A sensation, prickling ice and scorching desert wind both, permeates the vast expanse of space, crawling its way ever closer to that tiny orb of blue and green, spinning oblivious in the dark reaches of its insignificant galaxy, its sun dying a little more each day._

_And though to that self-same orb's inhabitants every day feels like life is hard enough, so hard they cannot bear it, in truth, the problems of their precious Earth have only just begun._


	18. Nightmares, Debts, and Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously titled Collision Course, this was mostly written to Radioactive by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> this update may get tweaked later, i was just DYING to upload a new chapter!! please forgive any grievous spelling/grammar mistakes, it's 1am here.. uwu

_Some weeks ago_

 

The dossier lies open on the desk and the team, minus Thor and Banner, stand in mute silence after hearing its contents.

“I think it’s fairly safe to assume that our slick-haired friend is controlling the Cube -”

And Fury grimaces as he says through gritted teeth “- _Again._ ”

“How in the hell did he get it back?” Tony snaps, straight to the point. He shakes a bag of blueberries and tears it open. “Actually, first things first, how in the name of all that is holy did he _escape Asgard?_ ”

Fury folds his arms and fixes him with a stare, “Right now? _How_ he got his grubby little paws on the Cube, and how he managed to escape Asgardian imprisonment _in the first place,_ is not our concern. The fact that he has kidnapped two teams tasked with protecting Phase 2 development sites most definitely _is._ ”

Steve is livid. “I still can’t _believe_ you went through with further Phase 2 development _in the first place_ , _sir_. After we _specifically_ -”

Fury cuts him off harshly, “Captain, now is _not_ the time for moral debate. Right now, who is wrong and who is right does not matter.” He looks round the group. “I don’t know what Loki’s plan is, and frankly, I don’t particularly care. What I care about is getting those agents back in one piece-”

“And that’s assuming they still _are_ in one piece,” Clint mutters darkly, attaching new arrowheads to naked shafts and stuffing the finished arrows unceremoniously into his quiver.

Fury shoots him a dark look, but the archer isn’t fazed, just continues with his task even more viciously than before, if that’s even possible, as Fury grinds out,

“- _and protecting the prototypes._ ”

Natasha is next to speak.

“At this point, we know that Loki has blueprints of the Phase 2 research plants and that he plans to take the weapons housed there, though they are incomplete." She glances emotionlessly at the director as she adds, "We also have good reason to believe that he has the Cosmic Cube and will use it to complete the weapons, and then use them.”

Fury nods, but just as he opens his mouth to speak, Steve bites out, “Use them for _what?_ ”

This earns a shrug from the redhead, “We don’t know for sure yet.” Then she adds, a little more sarcastically than Steve finds he likes, “We don’t usually get the villains’ top-secret “To Do” lists in our briefing packets, Rogers. We're working on it.”

Clint barks a laugh from his perch.

“Bet they’re for us,” he mutters. “Payback for ruining his plans for world domination in Manhattan. And wouldn’t that be poetic justice, taking us out with our own goddamn WMDs-”

As Steve grits his teeth, behind him, Tony makes a face like something has finally clicked.

After a moment, he clears his throat and says, “Uh, Steve? I think Barton actually just answered your question.”

To which Clint looks up from his arrows and responds, “ _Excuse me?_ ”

Tony, having recovered from his epiphany, simply waves his bag of blueberries in a shrug. “Well, it'd be poetic justice, wouldn't it? Not to mention the irony... Frankly, it sounds _exactly_ like something Loki would go for. He’s theatrical, he's a drama queen. He makes things personal. What if that is exactly it?”

The director sighs. “You might want to elaborate on that thought process, Stark, because patience is not a commodity I have in overly abundant quantities right now. And nobody’s in the mood for your eccentricities either, I can assure you.”

“Fine,” Tony shrugs, “Let’s recap.”

He ticks off on his fingers as he starts pacing, “One, the Cube disappears from Asgard. Two, two teams of agents tasked with protecting Phase 2 development sites go missing. And three, Loki - psychotic adopted brother of our dear Thunder God, responsible for the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands, and the near obliteration of Manhattan - the only person known to have created a stable portal with said Cube, busts outta jail, never to be seen again." Tony looks around. “Those are the facts, ladies and gentlemen. ”

Fury, for his part, does not look impressed. If anything, he looks pissed, nerve ticking viciously at his temple. Tony watches it jump for a few frantic beats before the director says, “Thank you for clearing that up, Stark, but I’m fairly sure you just summarised what is in the dossier on the desk in front of you. We _know_ Loki has the Cube and we can safely _assume_ that he plans to manipulate Phase 2 prototype weapons systems because of the kidnappings -”

And Tony waggles a finger in front of Fury’s face and tuts, “Ah, ah, ah. I’m not finished.”

The director makes a face, long-suffering, but nods curtly for him to continue. And so Tony does, pacing, clearing his throat for the monologue and inevitable reveal.

“Okay. So. Facts, check. Conjectures, here we go." He stops pacing and says, "What if Loki wants the prototypes to exact this oh-so “poetic” revenge, but actually has no idea how to complete them on his own, or maybe even use them? I think given that he got his, what was it, Fury... "flying monkeys"?... to whip up the mechanics of the _last_ portal it’s safe to say he doesn’t know jack about “Midgardian” science, which means he’s going to need at least one person that _does_ if he wants to complete the Phase 2 prototype weapons.”

Tony resumes his pacing. “If he wants to complete and then - obviously - _use_ these weapons, my guess is that he might try to combine them with something he knows much and more about, to compensate for the fact that they’re based on our lowly mortal technology. And what’s more, he’ll probably want to be able to operate them alone because -”

“He’s a power-obsessed maniac with enough trust issues to sink a warship?” Clint interjects.

Oh he _does_ like the archer sometimes.

Tony grins at him. “Quite. Not to mention his last alliance ended in inevitable, miserable failure and a supposedly indefinite prison stay, complete with enchanted handcuffs.”

“Cut to the chase, Stark,” Fury drawls, interrupting. “Something such as?”

And Tony shrugs again and says matter-of-factly, as if it is painfully obvious, “Magic. Duh.”

“But," he says, " _despite_ the very logical conclusion that he is flying solo on this one – and I’m just gonna throw this out there, because this, _this_ could be the kicker – what if he _isn’t_ working alone?”

His suggestion rings in stony silence.

“Anybody else think of that?” he asks, popping another blueberry into his mouth.

Fury’s eyebrows knit together, and Tony feels Steve turn to face him at his side. He can imagine the look of disbelief and confusion on the captain’s face, but he doesn’t turn to see.

“Excuse me?” Fury asks in clipped tones.

Tony examines his fingernails, or pretends to, at least.

“Well I mean - and I’m not playing Devil’s Advocate here - but _what if_?”

The director clucks his tongue, lips pursed. He folds his arms slowly, as if the very act will calm him.

It doesn’t.

Tony is met with silence again. He makes a frustrated noise.

“ _Seriously?_ _Nobody_ sees what I’m getting at here?”

“Not really,” says Natasha. Clint says nothing, looking vaguely confused, and Steve? Well. If Steve frowned any harder, his forehead would crease permanently.

Tony sighs in exasperation. “You could at _least_ do me the favour of following the breadcrumb trail, guys, come on. It’s not that hard. I laid it out real nice.”

“You did _not_ ,” scoffs Clint, before he twists a new arrowhead from the case at his knee.

“Just get to the point, Tony,” Steve almost snaps, and Tony shoots him a faux-hurt look for not backing him up.

“ _Fine_ ,” he huffs, waving a hand, “I’ll skip to the good stuff.” He leans his hip against Fury’s desk.

“Loki has the Cube," Tony says calmly, "Or so we believe. We _know_ he has also kidnapped agents directly involved with Phase 2 - a program that centers on creating prototype WMDs reliant on the Cube’s infinite energy to operate. Basically, it seems to boil down to the fact that he wants to kill us with our own nukes after we put the kibosh on his hostile takeover in New York. And that’s the dramatic irony bit, Clint, thank you for that.” The archer waves with his free hand. Tony raises his forefinger as he continues, “ _But,_ Loki can’t _finish_ the prototypes on his own. Given that he needed _human_ scientists to build the Manhattan portal for him, I personally don't think he knows enough about our science to manage it, even now. So, the theory is that he’ll want to combine and complete the weapons he's stolen with magic, firstly so he’s working with what he knows, and secondly because he doesn’t trust anyone else to operate the weapons after Selvig – someone he brought in from the _outside_ – had the presence of mind and/or the strength of conscience to actually build in a failsafe to shut the entire portal down, _despite_ being under Loki’s creepy mind ju ju."

" _However,_ " Tony adds.

Fury raises an eyebrow. " _However?_ "

Tony pauses to shrug before he continues. "It is my belief that Loki may be relying on our assumption that he will be working alone - understandable considering his last foray into an evil-doers partnership ended in disastrous failure, thanks to us, of course - and hoping that that assumption will throw us off his scent, preventing us from making connections or pursuing alternative theories, and leading us down a false trail."

"The fact is," Tony says, palms spread, "Loki clearly has no idea how our tech works. If he’s trying to build weapons that he will be able operate without any outside assistance, he's gonna need someone who can combine mechanics and magic. Someone he either thinks he can trust, or can successfully manipulate. Guessing it'll be the latter, judging by his usual methods.”

Tony shifts back, folding his arms. “And the only person I can think of with that level of intellect and that capacity for complete and utter evil - not to mention apathy and total insanity… is Victor Von Doom.”

The team is silent.

Tony shrugs. “That’s it. That’s my big reveal.”

The silence continues until Fury abruptly throws his hands up in a gesture that very much says “ _This motherfu_ -” and then actually says, “Oh, you _cannot_ be serious.”

And Tony just looks at him, not challenging, not really, though to the director the jut of his chin _feels_ an awful lot like a challenge.

“You honestly think Loki would team up with _Victor Von Doom_?” Fury asks, acidic, after which the director addresses the others incredulously, “Have they ever even _met?_ ”

Then Fury turns back to Tony and snaps, “We just agreed five minutes ago that Loki would do this _alone_ or not at all. Ego to rival even your good self? Remember that? And trust issues to boot?”

“Hey, don’t bring _my_ ego into this,” Tony says, then retorts simply, “And why _wouldn’t_ he team up with Doom? Didn’t I just explain this in _very simple_ English?"

The question is met with shrugs and noncommittal noises. Tony just sighs, utterly exasperated. He’s right. He _knows_ he’s right. _Why don’t they see it?_

Steve’s eyes have narrowed at him and, thoroughly disgruntled, Tony chews and swallows another handful of blueberries to distract himself from that fact.

But soon enough, he can see his words are beginning to make an impact. _Finally._ Natasha is frowning, shooting concerned glances at the director, and Clint has an arrowhead half attached, lips tightly pressed together. The archer clearly wasn’t expecting anyone to take his flippant comment so seriously. So Tony decides to plough on, resuming his pacing.

“Guys, come on, who do we know that deals _specifically_ in splicing science and magic? And Fury, you can bet your ass Loki knows about him from all that time he spent scuttling around the underworld, dealing with God knows who, doing God knows what - building that portal he strapped to the roof of my fucking building -” Tony stops and says bitterly, “And yes, I am still so very pissed about that, just in case it wasn’t clear.” He waves his hands around as he adds, “I mean, sure, Doom’s crazy as a shithouse rat, but that won’t matter to a similarly psychopathic _god_ , now, will it? He could just wipe Victor off the face of the Earth if he started getting ideas above his station, right?”

“Y’know,” Clint says, “Thor would probably mash your face in for talking about his brother like this -” when Steve abruptly interjects.

“Look, I’ve had more experience with that cursed Cube than any of you, and let me tell you right now, retrieving it _has_ to be our main concern. _Not_ chasing Doom on the back of a flimsy _what if_. We need it out of Loki’s hands and as far away from _anyone_ as we can possibly take it.” He turns to Fury with hard eyes and says, “I’m sorry, sir, but that means SHIELD as well. Look how things ended the two times it surfaced. First the Red Skull, then Loki?” Steve shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous to stay here. It can’t stay on Earth. Thor wasn’t wrong about that.”

“Great job Odin did protecting it though, huh?” Tony snaps. "If the Allfather had kept his end of the bargain, we wouldn’t be in this fucking mess in the first place. We sent the Cube away for a reason, and here it is, back again like a fucking boomerang."

Steve sighs heavily then, sick and tired of chasing the Cube round and round, in never-ending circles of increasing terror and horror. He nods, addressing Fury, “The Asgardians have proved that they aren't capable of keeping it safe either, sir. We need to bury it, somewhere no one will ever abuse it again. _That_ is our priority."

"Whatever Loki plans to do with the Cube, Phase 2 weapons or not, it _cannot_ lead to anything good,” he says. “We have to find him, and we have to take it back. The Cube is what really matters.”

Tony makes a face, "Um, isn't the guy trying to use the Cube to his own nefarious advantage our real priority?" He points at the dossiers on the table, an image of the Cube lying face up in the centre of the pile. "The Cube has no will of its own. The person manipulating the energy is the priority. They have the motives, they have the intentions, good or evil. If Loki is trying to use Doom to complete the weapons -" 

Steve turns to face him. “I understand your logic, Tony, but we can’t make rash assumptions based on connections you pull out of thin air. We can’t just assume Loki is working with Doom. It’s too much of a jump based on too little information.”

“Hey, it is an _educated guess_ -” Tony says, looking vaguely affronted. Steve glares at him as he speaks, but the billionaire doesn’t really react further than that, instead continuing to cram blueberries into his mouth and trying to seem unaffected by not having Steve’s vote of confidence. It doesn't work.

The captain just gives him a look. “Tony, it’s a hunch, and it’s not got my Spidey-sense tingling so I can’t say it’s worth a damn.”

And Tony _does_ look affronted then.

“Frankly,” Steve adds, “I agree with what Clint said earlier. What we _all_ agreed made sense. Loki is far too proud to share _anything_ with _anyone_ , power _or_ credit. Not to mention that I can't see him risking failure again because he trusted or used others to do his work. Selvig’s failsafe was his downfall last time, you were right about that, and he won’t make the same mistake twice. He's far too clever for that. He’ll find a way to do this alone, I’m telling you.”

"And what if that's exactly what he wants us to think?" Tony pushes, "Huh? How else is Loki going to do this, when he has no grasp of our science, but with help? Sure, he'd have his hands full convincing Doom to do it, or even manipulating him into forgetting he's done it at all, but that doesn't change the fact that he _needs help_ from _somewhere_. So what if that conclusion is wrong? Are we really willing to pin our hopes on that one possibility? Are we that narrow-minded? Because I'm sorry," Tony snaps, "but I forgot my Convenience Blinkers."

"And I'm sorry, Tony, but I just don't agree with you," Steve says quietly, refusing to avert his gaze when Tony tries to stare him down.

After a moment, Fury nods, and turning to face him, says, “I'm with the captain on this one, Stark. SHIELD can’t afford to take the risk of engaging Doom. It would be seen as an act of war, both by him and by everyone else." The director exhales through his nose, and almost reluctantly, says, "This organisation keeps the peace, we don't provoke hostilities.”

And yet Tony can almost see that his earlier words have set cogs in motion in the director’s mind behind the mask of concurrence. He can practically hear the whirring, the turning. He can see the doubt tugging at his mouth.

 _Oh, we are going to have a conversation later,_ Tony thinks, teeth gritted. He will make sure of that.

“Besides,” Steve continues, oblivious, “without the Cube the designs are worthless, useless. So unless we know _for sure_ that Loki _does_ have the Cube in his possession, that it isn't just lost, -”

And this time, Tony interrupts, exploding, “He _has_ the Cube, he _has_ to have it!” He flails at the dossiers spread across the desk. “You have intel _right there in front of you_ that says in _very_ large, _very_ black and white print that he does!” He makes a face, disbelieving. “ _What else_ could _possibly_ have formed blue, glowing, stable portals that match the exact signatures of the Manhattan incident? Because it sure as shit wasn't one of our efforts! Who else knows how?”

Steve frowns and Tony sighs in desperation. He crushes the now empty blueberry packet and throws his hands up. “Look, Steve, the energy signatures _match_. Don’t doubt me on this! I’ve been staring at them for _days_ , and no matter how much I wish I was wrong, the numbers _don't lie_. You’ve got the paperwork _right there!_ ”

Tony abruptly realises just how hard his chest is heaving, and forces himself to swallow a breath, then another, in an attempt to compose himself.

There is silence for a moment, as each of them considers the facts presented. Then, finally, Steve grits out “ _Fine._ ” Natasha crosses her arms, face grim, and says, “So we work through both options, assuming the worst.”

“We _always_ assume the worst,” Fury answers eventually, with a heavy sigh. “And now, we plan for it. We make contingencies for every option.” He steeples his fingers as he slides into his chair behind the desk. “If we can nip this in the bud…”

Long minutes later, the decision made, the orders given, Steve shoots a final glance at Tony, and curtly excuses himself from the room, face thunderous. Tony knows he’ll find him beating the living shit out of something in the training room later because, the close call with a proper argument aside, it just seems like Steve can never escape the Cube for too long. It haunts him, like a nightmare he’s destined to keep living, over and over again.

It makes him hurt a little to think about it, to remember Steve’s words when he first learned that SHIELD had recovered the Cube and then managed to lose it to Loki, resulting in the demigod’s attack on Manhattan.

_“You should’ve left it in the ocean.”_

Tony sighs. Would he never be free of it?

The billionaire turns to Fury, tries for flippancy in his tone as his mind chases Steve down the winding metal corridors, wishing he could comfort him, but knowing he has to leave him be. At least for a little while.

“So, what,” he says, “are we buying into my hunch that Loki’s teamed up with the Man in the Iron Mask, then?”

“We will consider it as a possibility,” Fury replies curtly, "although an extremely unlikely one."

The director scoops up the papers on the desk, closing the dossier, and tucks it under one arm. He turns to leave the meeting room.

“We need evidence, Stark,” he says over one shoulder, “Solid, indisputable evidence, that will stand up in international court should this situation ever come to a head. We can’t go off half-cocked. And we can’t have an international incident. You know Latveria is a sovereign state now.”

Tony rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, “Still so _very_ unimpressed by that development.”

Fury raises an eyebrow before adding, “Not to mention the fact that he has diplomatic immunity in his own embassy here.”

“I know, I _know_ ," Tony rolls his eyes. "What, you think I'm just gonna fly up to his front door, knock twice, and ask nicely to see the super-charged magic/nuclear hybrid weapons he's building for the wanted mass-murdering asshole that nearly wiped Manhattan off the -?”

“What I _think_ , Stark, is that we have to do this the _right way,_ ” Fury says, cutting him off. "The risk is too great.”

Tony’s mind is already racing, and almost immediately, a solution crystallises. He smiles.

“So send Natasha,” he shrugs, perching himself nonchalantly on the edge of the desk.

Fury stops walking then and turns back, eyebrow raised. Natasha glances at him from the director’s side.

“Come again?” Fury asks.

"Easiest way to see if I'm right, right?" Tony asks. Then he addresses the redhead directly, head tilted,

“You sneak in, you check up on our favourite shiny sovereign, you sneak out, you report back." Tony smiles. "Shouldn’t be too difficult for an operative of your calibre, right?”

Natasha simply folds her arms. “You flatter me, Stark.”

He gives his very best shit-eating grin. The one he reserves for politicians… as he outright mocks them to their faces. It’s one of his favourite games.

But all he says is, “I try.”

Fury cocks his head to one side. “Why are you so determined to believe that Doom is involved in this? You got some intel you want to share with the rest of us?"

Natasha looks at him.

"You _are_ aware that being part of a team means you don’t go all cavalier on us and shoot off on your own?" the director adds with a pointed look. "Previous actions notwithstanding, of course…”

All that earns him is a non-committal shrug and a shake of the head.

“No, sir," Tony smiles. "Nothing to share at all. Just planning for every contingency, as you so wisely said.”

And the grin is back.

Fury frowns, and Tony can almost see the cogs turning in his head as he tries to figure him out.

 _Well good luck to him._ He’ll be playing this one close to his arc-reactor heart.

“You just concentrate on your work with the trackers, Stark,” Fury says, finally. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Tony wrinkles his nose as he answers, “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

“And stop calling me ‘sir’,” Fury snaps. “Coming from you it sounds disingenuous at best, and frankly it makes me nervous.”

“You? Nervous? Never,” quips Tony, hopping down from the desk and striding out of the room, dropping his empty blueberry packet into the trash as he leaves, the very picture of confidence.

The spectacle now apparently over, Clint screws on his last arrowhead and shoulders his quiver, exiting with a curt, “Sir,” and a nod to Natasha.

 

With the last echo of Clint’s footsteps, finally, it is just the two of them, spy master and assassin. Fury rubs at his chin, face set in a scowl. At his side, Natasha softly says, “Sir?”

“Much as I hate to admit when he’s right…” the director says, with a sigh, “He might be right.”

He clasps his hands behind his back. “You know what to do, Agent Romanov. _But_ ,” he pauses, voice deadly serious, “this is officially _off_ the books until we find something that’ll stick. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she says, and that is all she needs to say, really, before she disappears down the corridor without another word.

Because, as Stark had wisely said so long ago, _there is only the next mission, and nothing else._

 

_One week ago_

 

Tony lays motionless on the hard floor, deserving the cold stone, the discomfort, the ache of it settling in his spine.

His mind spins, woozy. He can see it when he closes his eyes, the grey matter swimming in a glass case, entombed in amber liquid, a warm, wet, crystal prison. He laughs at the thought. _Ridiculous_.

He squeezes his closed eyes tighter. Numb fingers skate desperately under the collar of his shirt to find an itch he cannot scratch. It plays hide and seek, ducking down into his bones and reappearing seconds later in a new place he cannot reach. It is driving him to distraction, to insanity. Either. Both, perhaps.

He can’t bring himself to finish the thought process so he lets it leave him, lets it drift away into the fog.

He feels sick. The dizziness hasn’t abated as he’d hoped it would when he’d all but collapsed onto the floor a few moments before.

He removes the arm bent behind his back with a grunt, feeling the first spark of pins and needles as sensation reclaims it with a vengeance, brutal, almost.

But he deserves the pain. Any of it, all of it. More of it.

He will never experience enough of it to be satisfied. Because it will never be enough to tip the scale.

He would sigh, would choke and sob, but he hasn’t the strength or the patience or even the capacity for self-loathing to manage even that at this point.

Tony’s mind swims, and his bones crack. Lying on that cold floor, he remembers.

He has debts to pay, scores to settle; a price on his head. He has sums unpaid that cannot be sated with material wealth. Sure, of that he has plenty, but no. His debts are those of the _pound of flesh_ variety. And for all it has regrown, his flesh, all these years, knitting him back together with only the scars to show for his troubles, only tired bones beneath, he finds he has no flesh left to give.

Because he’s sold it all, a thousand times over. He’s sold and bought and bartered it infinitely. He’s traded it, bargained it, frittered it away. To every woman, every man, every creature and every inhuman beast that has sought a piece of it over the years he’s lived on this godforsaken lump of rock, floating in the vastness of space. He has paid his debts, and has been paying them, for as long as he can remember.

 _Enough_ , he thinks, _please_. _Let it be enough_.

But he knows it never will be. Whoever it is that gets to decide when “enough” will come, it isn’t the man with his balance yet unpaid. That is a god’s whim, and he will never wield such power.

He has been resigned to his penance for a long time now.

The black abyss of his own darkness is a yawning maw, threatening, deadly, utterly debilitating, and yet so familiar that he truly believes he could not escape it if he tried. He had long resigned himself to the burden of it, the presence, the weight in his life, behind every thought, action, and emotion he has, and _will ever_ _have_. And a large part of him believes he does not _deserve_ to escape it. He does not _deserve_ to outrun the ghosts that haunt him. Because he deserves them. He _deserves_ the pull of their fingers, the weight of their guilt, the holes bored into his back from the accusing stares of their sightless eyes.

A hundred, a thousand good deeds, _a million_ , could not erase his mistakes, could not pay those debts. He cannot appease those he has failed. He cannot bring them back.

And it is with that weight in his heart he crawls through the grey of his life, a curse on his lips for the hand he was dealt, in thankless, futile penance eternal.

But this day he suffers with new pain. The final piece that, when pulled, brings the whole tower tumbling down, collapsing in ashes, leaving nothing but bitter memories and rubble.

Tony blinks up at the stars floating above his head and in that moment he cannot bear to look at them anymore. Because stars promise hope, in a strange, perverted way. Though they themselves are points of light that have long since burned to death - dead and dust and gone, a breath on the wind of the universe, infinite, expanding eternal - they promise it. Hope. A second chance. A change in fate. _Possibility_.

Numbers race through his head, unbidden. Statistics, he realises dully as the digits rush through him, spreading through his brain with pointed fingers, equations jagged, the calculations as far from smooth as he imagines it is possible to get. Mathematics was never so painful for him, and he wonders when the pain permeated so far into his mind that even science presents no escape from the raw scrape of it against his fragile soul.

And there it is again. Oozing, edging closer, a sickly, dripping, liquid growl emerging from its stretching maw. It is black, pure and full, and there is not a light in it. Not a single star to promise their perverted hope. All swallowed, drowning in the darkness.

 _Extinguished_.

He squeezes his eyes tighter, and curls in. But, for all he digs his fingers into his arms, tucks his knees up to his chin, wraps himself in and over and around as far as his skin will stretch, it still comes. It calls to him, voice soft and low, poisonous, slow and gentle like a lover’s kiss, but inevitable all the same. Inescapable.

_Get up._

For all his genius, Tony cannot protect himself from the creeping darkness. His own guilt. Nightmares that _won’t leave._ Dreams he can’t escape.

A moan that he dully realises must be his own permeates the fog in his skull.

_Get up._

_You had him,_ something hums. _You had him,_ it whispers, _and you gave him away._

But no, that too is wrong. He did not give. He _pushed._ He pushed and shoved and drove and _forced_ until he was alone with nothing but his own thoughts to drown him. He _discarded_ the only thing that made him feel real in a world where his nightmares stalk beside reality, substance in the harsh light of day. Even dawn, even waking, brings no respite, because wherever he walks, they walk in step with him, chained together by his consuming guilt.

And if Tony could have said one final word to the man he pushed away, he knows he would have choked on it.

_“I don’t deserve this, us. I don’t. I don’t deserve you.”_

And deep in his bones he believes that that is the truth.

He remembers.

_“You can’t fix me.”_

Tony crushes his eyes tighter, pulls his skin closer, and _breathes_ to silence the mocking voices in his mind, the nightmares tugging at his fingertips.

_Get up._

_Come with us._

Breathing does not work. The nightmares are still there when he opens his eyes.

They have been with him so long he may as well greet them as friends. They crowd him, humming, vibrating, whispering.

_Get up._

Curled on the floor, he reaches up. Vision dim and swimming, heart heavy, sick, he extends a hand.

And when he closes his eyes, the nightmares take it.

_Come with us._

 

. . .

 

His feet tread the pavement with relentless steps. He walks. He walks until he feels the ache begin to spread through his calves, crawling up into his thighs, the slow burn of acid in his muscles. He has been walking for hours, the scene of the city at night a blur of neon, a rush of colour and sound all around him, and he has seen none of it and all of it as he walks the streets.

A steady wash of rain falls, has been falling for some time now. The deluge began a fair while before, but Steve continued to walk all the same. His hands are deep in the pockets of the soft leather of his jacket. Its collar brushes against the lobes of his cold, red ears, and rain drips slowly from the tip of his nose, collects in the hollows of his cheeks, clutters his lashes and spills. He looks skyward, watches a familiar streak of red, washed grey in the rain-filled sky, as it passes at speed.

He wonders if the rain touches Tony as he flies, and his hand reaches up, still in the cold air, water adorning his fingertips, drops like glass on his fingernails.

Someone brushes roughly past him, and his thoughts scatter like rain. The world comes rushing back with a blast of light and noise. It shocks him back to the present, his feet frozen on the pavement below him, the city streets slick and wet all around him. Humanity crushes to his sides in the endless crowds of the metropolis. He would feel cold, if he could bring himself to feel at all.

The iPod in the pocket of his slacks plays the next track, yet another among the thousands written, loved, and then forgotten in the years he was not awake to hear them. Steve listens, stood still, his eyes closed to the rain as it washes down his face.

_And I never thought that you'd leave me here all on my own._

_And I never thought you'd be willing to take away my home._

_'Cause there's no one to call and I'm so sick of being all alone._

_And I'm stuck, miserably loving you._

_Emily, please, just get closer to me._

And while Steve has absolutely no idea who this “Emily” is, the words still hurt. It certainly doesn’t help that “Anthony” counts three syllables, his brain replacing them without his consent.

Music often has a way of focusing emotion, and all Steve can feel now is grief, spun in this moment by the simple melody of the song humming in his ears.

And it is only the subtle tint of heat that tells him there are tears within the raindrops in the water that streams from his lashes now.

He glances skyward, up into the black again, and feels hollow.

The rain does not stop.

 

_Two days ago_

 

Tony lies with his head in the crook of the captain’s neck, legs hooked over his lap in the warm dent in the sofa.

The TV murmurs in the background, and Steve’s fingers card gently through the mess of brown hair beneath them. Tony hums contentedly, not watching the pictures on the screen, his eyes half-closed, sleep only a breath or two away.

Steve smiles as Tony tries and fails to stifle a huge yawn that stretches the skin round his eyes into webbed feet at the corners, and lines etched by laughter adorn his mouth as his lungs expand.

Steve presses a kiss to the very top of Tony’s head and Tony wriggles a little, settling deeper, further into the cushion, against the flat expanse of Steve’s chest. His fingers curl under his own arms, folded across his chest, and he tucks his knees up a little higher, fidgeting to regain the level of comfort disturbed by his yawn.

Steve pokes him with a finger. “That yawn means it’s bedtime, sleepyhead.”

“Don’t wanna.” Tony mumbles after a moment, recalcitrant, but already full of sleep, his face softening at all the hard edges. Steve smiles and squeezes the arm around Tony’s shoulders.

“Hey, come on. Let’s call it a night and head up to bed.”

He gets a muffled “ _mmph_ ” from the billionaire curled against his chest and Steve kisses the crown of his head once more for good measure.

He smiles and murmurs, “Love you, Tony” into his hair, and it comes as easy as breathing. His chest isn’t tight as he says it, and Tony doesn’t freeze in his arms.

The billionaire simply hums and exhales slowly, a nod caught halfway finished, and the response sleep-slurred on his lips he mumbles, “Love you too.”

Steve doesn’t really hear the words, but sees them in the subtle shape of Tony’s mouth as they part from his lips.

And a coldness invades the room then. The lights flicker quietly. The TV crackles, static, and something hangs in the thin air that was not present a moment before. There is darkness in the corners of the room, and it is creeping forward, slow, and inevitable. But the darkness has claws, and it has teeth, and slowly creeping, edging, crawling, it comes for them. It comes for them both.

Its approach is stilted, its advance angles and harsh screeching halts. The pool of soft, warm light around their bodies shrinks as the darkness, oozing, comes.

And in that instant, Steve is deathly afraid.

His hand curls protectively over the arc reactor embedded in Tony’s sleeping chest, and just as he leans down to kiss him again, trying to blinking away the cold, the strange sudden fear, Tony’s face changes in front of his eyes.

Breath crushed in his throat, rasping, his pallor turns the colour of ash. Cuts and bruises claw their way through the surface of his skin, ripping through it from the inside out. Blood bursts like overripe fruit. Flesh rends and tears. And Steve can only watch in paralysed horror.

Violent wounds appear with shocking speed, phantom, as if Tony had looked upon his own immortal portrait and taken the horrors into himself at last. They are the marks of a battle long-spent, and they blossom red and terrible on his ashen skin, spreading bloody tracks across his limbs, trailing muscle and torn skin, fat and blood and bone.

Steve screams in silence as Tony’s body jerks horribly in his arms, as Tony hacks red liquid up into his open eyes, blood now dripping thickly from his mouth, pooling on his chin, and with glassy eyes, Tony slumps forward, lifeless.

The TV crackling somewhere at the edges of his fractured consciousness, Steve wakes in darkness, in a constricting fog of sweat and sheets, screaming to an empty room.

 

. . .

 

Abruptly, there is a heavy pounding on the metal door outside.

Mouth thick with sleep, Tony all but falls from the chair at his desk, trying to get up to answer the incessant knocking. It sounds frantic, panicked. Tony stumbles forward, rubbing the sleep a might from his eyes.

He wrenches the door open, not awake enough to gauge the strength needed to do so normally, and he has barely formed the angry “ _What_ ” when he stops cold.

Steve is panting heavily on the other side of the door.

His eyes are wild, wide, and for all the world looking like they had never thought to fall upon Tony’s face again.

He looks utterly terrified.

And though they haven’t uttered a single word to each other in weeks, before he can slam the door closed in his face, Steve shoves through the slight opening, rushing him, crushing himself to Tony, cramming into his space. He envelopes him in a wordless rush of breath and body, pulling him as close as he possibly can without breaking his bones.

But Steve’s voice does break as Tony’s name rushes from his lips, cracks entirely, splits down the middle. He trips on it, stumbles and falls, as if it hurts him to say it again. And all the strangled, compressed pain comes pouring through that violent fissure.

Tony is motionless for all of five seconds before wrenching himself free of Steve’s grasp, shoving against his chest, pushing him roughly, rudely, away with almost a snarl.

Steve is panting still, eyes so wide, and his chest heaves with the effort of containing his straining lungs as they drag breath in and huff breath out. His fingers clutch empty air now, curling in on themselves and opening stiltedly, as if he has forgotten how to move at all.

He blinks once, twice, then seems to realise where he is. He stares at Tony as if he is emerging from a daze, like Tony is a mirage threatening to vanish the longer he looks.

And in his eyes the struggle to leave or to stay is captured in startling blue clarity.

But Tony’s proximity, his presence, his laboured breaths at the shock of the moment, argue in favour of one course of action and one course only.

After weeks of enforced separation, minutes, hours, and days all yawning like years of misunderstanding, miscommunications and silence, Steve can’t bear to deny himself what Tony’s closeness promises, what he had held moments before.

That aches settles deep, and Steve lunges for him, desperate.

Tony nearly trips as he jerks back to stay out of reach, but before he knows which direction is up, he falls, and it is only Steve’s arms catching him that stop his descent, that stop his skull’s inevitable crack as it meets with the hard floor.

Under the weight of him, they sink together to their knees, Steve’s legs weak and limp beneath him, suddenly unable to support his weight, and the captain murmurs into his hair, breath hot against his scalp, and the words make no sense, no sense at all.

Tony cannot form a single word himself as he realises that Steve is cradling him to his chest, as if this is the very last time he would be able to do so, as if he thought he never would again.

This sentiment is not so far from truth, in honesty, but the absolute ferocity of it, the power of his grip shocks Tony. Steve is clutching him so tight it hurts, his arms pinned, Steve’s fingers digging into his skin so hard Tony can feel the bruises beneath them forming in that same instant.

He can’t get free, and yet, despite the emotions warring within him, he almost believes he doesn’t want to.

It would be a lie to say it was easy to forget how Steve felt simply through denying himself the reality of it, but the physical distance he’d put between them had helped him cope with that decision.

But as he struggles to hear anything past his own heart in ears, he feels the captain’s body shake silently against his own, and he realises suddenly that Steve is crying.

And through everything between them, the things they’d said and done and the flimsy fabric of their clothing, he feels as much as hears Steve whisper, over and over, “ _you were dead,_ _I dreamt you were dead._ ”

And his fingers curl of their own accord then, tugging against the cotton beneath them, losing themselves in the folds of the captain’s shirt.

“I’m not dead, Steve. I’m here.”

And the captain’s head snaps up, because that is the first time Tony has spoken his name since the first day he caught him drinking again.

“Tony-”

He can’t bring himself to care that his voice escapes him rough, high and needy, that it grates against his own ears with the sheer depth of pathetic desperation in it.

Tony stares up at him, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t push him away. In fact, he can’t summon the energy to do anything at all but sit there, caught in the vice of the captain’s arms.

“Steve,” comes the agonised whisper after far too long, “ _Steve, I_ -”

But the rest of the sentence is lost in the strangled breath of the captain’s response, the rush of warmth as he wraps his arms impossibly tighter around Tony’s tired frame. He holds him as though he could never bring himself to let go, ever again, regardless of what was to come.

And Tony is so tired of fighting, so tired of lying, so tired of wrestling with his demons and the darkness of his past. The weight of the trauma he carries is a heavy burden, slung low on his breaking spine, forever forcing him off-balance, dogging his steps. His nightmares are an impatient child, forever tugging on the tips of his fingers, their cold hand insistent at the edges of everything, dragging him screaming in silence away from the world and into the darkest places his mind can conjure. And some of those places are very dark indeed.

But in this second, in this breath, with Steve’s hands on him, with the familiar heat of his body rolling over him in waves, the depth he has missed him is stronger than his fears. Because Steve _can be_ that blinding light, _can keep_ those terrible shadows at bay. And Tony asks himself a single question in this moment.

_How could he have turned from this to the dark?_

Steve’s fingers spread suddenly at the nape of his neck, hot and strong on his cold skin.

They drag his head back from the crook of Steve’s shoulder, force his eyes to meet the captain’s own.

For a long moment, they do not speak, they merely share that look, as if they are trying to relearn the lines of each other’s faces, the colour of their eyes, the shape of their mouths.

As if they had forgotten.

And though in his mind he sees the next few precious seconds play in a blur of skin and teeth, heat and blinding light, though he hopes for it with every tattered fibre of his being, the captain does not move as he expected.

Steve reaches to his own chest, other hand still a presence curled against the back of Tony’s neck, and he pulls Tony’s shaking hand away from the breadth of it. Tony’s ears roar in the silence, and he sees in slow motion, almost.

Steve dips his head, so slowly, thumb pressed to the base of Tony’s palm, and turns his hand, cupped palm now facing up, bringing it carefully to his lips. With a slow and steady breath, exhaling its meaning in a skid of air on Tony’s bare skin, he presses the softest of kisses to the skin in the centre of that palm, eyes closed, and so gently, as if Tony is brittle and fragile as glass.

And the agony sloughs from his bones like the shedding of a dead skin, its carcass rolling free, dissolving from his tired frame like so much dust.

The soft, pink skin, raw and new beneath it, echoes with memory, and Tony sees it play behind his eyes.

The lights of a night sky, aglow from the murmuring city below it. The hush of a quiet room, the clink of ice on glass.

And the dazed press of lips to his own open palm, eyes caught clear in the half-light.

The unveiling of truths in silence, shadow, and the glitter of stars. The thundering of his own caged, wounded heart.

“Steve,” he echoes softly, his own voice a stranger to his ears.

“Steve, I -”

The captain’s fingers curl against his cheek, and a tear track glints in the dim light of the cabin. He hushes him softly, pressing his forehead to Tony’s own. His breath escapes in a panicked imitation of a sigh, his lungs unable to draw any deeper than that shallow sound.

And he smiles, tired and unsure that the moment can last, but clutching to hope that it will, that the fighting is over. It is low, like a winter sun emerging from behind thick cloud, and just as blinding as that same light on water.

Tony cannot breathe for the sight it.

And Steve murmurs something as he hushes him, choked, as his breath refuses to come. “It’s okay, Tony, I know.”

He chokes back something that could be a sob.

“I know.”

The only sound for a long time is the sound of their breathing slowing, the sound of their mouths colliding, the soft crush of skin on skin.

Tony rolls beneath him like he never left, and Steve fits against the curves and planes of him as if he were a second skin. Brown and blue melt together again, curled, tangled, at utter peace in their hearts’ own chaos.

In sighs and silence, they remember. In light and heat, they forget.

As dawn kisses the glass, fingerprints entwined opaque against its transparent panes, the window shines gold for the barest fraction of a moment where the sun hits it just right.

A new sun rises, catching limbs and lashes in its pale wash. A fresh start a promise in the soft press of wordless mouths.

Golden in the cold morning air, a new day dawns.

 

. . .

 

_Long and low in a room of ash, dust, and unyielding heat, a shadow laughs._

_And in a cruel voice, the shadow hisses, “Perfect.”_

_A pale hand curls at his shoulder, its owner’s voice the broken melody of an untuned harp, perfection harmonically perverted._

_“The pieces are all in place, father,” that voice murmurs._

_And the shadow smiles. “Indeed they are.”_

_A growl resounds deep in the darkness, and a hiss curls slowly round the shadow’s throat. He hums, stroking, voice like velvet rubbed the wrong way._

_“Not long to wait now, my darlings. These puppets will dance on the strings we have spun for them soon enough. There is just one more task I must undertake.”_

_Terrible sounds collide in the black, and the pale one smiles._

_“One must always finish the things one starts,” the shadow purrs, languid and content._

_“And how sweet this will be, when it is done,” the pale one murmurs at his side._

_She turns to the shadow, white eyes smiling._

_“We will watch the world burn," she sighs, "together.”_

_And there is laughter deep in the abyss._


	19. Steadfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the idea behind this chapter is essentially that i felt that Rhodey and Pepper deserved far more screen time than i'd given them, considering how important they are to Tony, so here, they finally get their due (at least, in small part!) as we see them as the bedrock of Tony's (pathetically/upsettingly :( ..) small network of trusted people; hence the name of the chapter. at this point in the story in fact, they are the only two people Tony will let anywhere near him :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter would have been much much longer, but half of it didn't fit tonally with this part, so i had to slice it into chunks! :( (still, hopefully this means another update is just around the corner..!) as always, i am so so sorry it's taken this long! i have had a few people prodding and poking me about whether DIASOS was on hiatus or not..! '''uwu oops... (IT ISN'T, btw!)
> 
> the first part of this chapter is set during the final section of Chapter 17, when Steve flies to Malibu and speaks to Pepper. the second part is set chronologically the day after Tony is lying drunk in his workshop and plagued by guilt in Chapter 18.
> 
> written to a variety of songs, including Bug Hunt from the Wreck-It Ralph OST, Red Hands by Walk Off the Earth, and My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> enjoy!

_Weeks Earlier  
_

Safe within the four walls of his workshop, Tony watches the exchange on the security feed.

He watches Steve as the cracks begin to show, and he watches as they tear him wide open. He flinches when he hears the way the captain speaks to Pepper, and then, he watches him leave. But all the while his fingers hover over the keypad, centimetres from entering the commands that would access the intercom.

The engines of Steve's plane whine and roar, mere feet above Tony's head, and he lets his hand curl into a fist, lets it rest on the glass. He does not complete the blow. To himself, to his own conscience, he hears himself ask, in a voice hoarse from disuse, "What the fuck am I  _doing_?"

And over the screech of the mindless heavy metal he plays to drown out the sound of his own thoughts, the voice of his AI intones, "I'm sorry, sir. Was that question rhetorical, or would you like an answer?"

"Jarvis, I swear to God, if you say something smart I will send Dummy to pull your primary circuits out," Tony mutters, fingernails digging into his palm as the plane finally disappears from sight.

"Charming, sir," says Jarvis, and Tony sighs, slumping down onto his arms at his desk.

Without being asked, the AI lowers the volume of the music, fading the shriek of metal into something ambient, something that requires no concentration or even notice. Tony doesn't acknowledge the change, though he is grateful for it, in a way.

He doesn't speak for a long time, chin pillowed on his folded arms. A hundred half-finished projects float in holographic blue light above his head, suspended in the air all around him; blueprints, plans, and schematics that, just like him, are incomplete.

And as if the four walls encasing him could give him the answer he seeks, he asks quietly, " _Why is this happening?_ "

After a moment, Jarvis makes a thoughtful noise, and says, "Well, sir. Solely based on your  _recent_  activities, I would be inclined to say that this culmination of events would seem to stem directly from  _your_  choices. You have been displaying increasingly irrational behaviour patterns since your recession of Master Rogers' access privileges to both this house and the Tower Penthouse floors…" and the AI adds gently, "Frankly, sir, your self-imposed seclusion has rather exacerbated matters. Perhaps if you were to speak to –?"

"That is quite definitely  _not_  what I wanted to hear," Tony says darkly. The AI lets out something like a snort.

"Oh, I do apologise," Jarvis replies drily, "Would you like me to retract my previous statement and conclude something that panders a little more to your bruised ego?"

"I always knew I made you too much of a smartass," Tony mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. With a sigh, he adds, "I hate you sometimes, Jarvis, you know that, right?"

The AI makes a sound like a laugh. "It has crossed my mind on occasion, sir, yes; though I believe that is only the case when the answer I provide does not please you, despite the fact that it is often correct." Tony snorts from under his hand. "Also, I feel inclined to remind you that in this case, as always, I am only responding to your queries based on the commands  _you_  yourself have issued. And, in this instance, following the logic sequences - I do not believe I am entirely incorrect, either."

Jarvis pauses before adding carefully, "But in all honesty, sir, should you wish to address these issues and at least  _attempt_ to begin to resolve matters… Answering Master Rogers' phone calls may be a good start."

Tony sighs.

"Just a suggestion, sir," says Jarvis, when his creator doesn't reply.

Tony slides a hand along the panel in front of him, rewinding the tape to the moment Steve was stood at his front door, not 20 minutes earlier, and taps  _Pause_. The captain's expression causes a strange ache to clutch at Tony's heart, and the feeling doesn't fade the longer he looks.

Tony scrubs a hand down his face again, fingers curling over his mouth. He watches the conversation between Steve and Pepper start over, flinches again when Steve dismisses her so cruelly. And as the scene plays out again, a small voice in his head murmurs " _ **You**_ _did that_ ", ever so softly.

" _He was never_ _ **cruel**_ _before_ ".

Tony scrunches his eyes shut.

" _ **You**_ _made him cruel_ ," the voice says softly, " _This is_ _ **your**_ _fault_."

" _Stop it_ ," Tony hisses, hands over his ears to shut out the words. But the voice is in his head, rattling in his skull, and all his entreaties fall on deaf ears.

A smile on its tongue, it murmurs, " _All, your,_ _ **fault**_."

Tony roars " _SHUT UP!_ " to an empty room.

On the screen, Steve's plane vanishes into the horizon for the second time, a pinpoint of light in the distance, taking hope with it.

The voice in his head laughs pitifully at his outburst, then fades to nothing; figment of his own mind taunting him.

Tony drags his hands through his hair again. He begs for peace, for calm, and is granted neither. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

Suddenly, " **ACCESS: GRANTED** " rings out over the slow tempo of the music in the air.

But Tony doesn't need to look to see who it is. There are only three people that can enter his workshop these days, and one of them is already here, wallowing in pain and pity, hiding from the world behind glass and metal; king of his castle and imprisoned within it, alone, of his own volition.

The door hisses open, and the click of heels accompanies a familiar call of "Tony?"

He numbly raises a hand so she can find him amongst the glowing blueprints.

Stepping inside, Pepper sighs gratefully when she hears the heavy metal has been replaced by something that sounds like a mixture of meditation tapes and trance. There may even be trickling water and whale noises in there, if she's hearing correctly.

"Thank God you turned that racket off," she breathes, "Any more and you would have gone deaf, I swear." Then she announces, "Oh, and I brought coffee."

Tony doesn't answer.

She navigates the maze of bottles and broken machinery carefully, stepping over tools and toys, parts of armour poking jaggedly, hazardously, upwards from every surface. At one point, the coffees she is balancing on a stack of paperwork wobble dangerously when she has to wriggle a foot down to reach the tiles. Tony still doesn't look up.

He hears the click of her heels draw closer as she approaches, sees a pile of components on the desk beside him being shoved to one side to make way for their mugs, smells the familiar scent of Arabica, and finally, feels the heat of her as she leans against the desk next to him.

When he does let his hands drop and looks up, Pepper is quietly sipping her coffee, watching the security feed, now absent of both the captain and the plane he came in.

After a moment, she looks down at him and smiles a little sadly. Eventually, she shakes her head and simply says, "Oh, Tony. You've made a real mess of things this time."

And he has no defense to give for that.

He exhales unsteadily instead, and Pepper's hand falls on his shoulder then, her fingers squeezing with gentle pressure. He looks up at her, and she smiles at him again.

"Hey," she murmurs softly.

He opens his mouth to speak but, for a moment, he can't. The words back up in his throat, crash together and collide, crawling to reach his tongue first.

It's asphyxiating.

Her hand soothes a circle against the fabric of his tank top and the bare skin beneath it, reminding him that she's content to sit and wait until the words will come. He exhales in a stuttered rush, and she nods.

"Easy, tiger. Take it easy. I can wait."

Tony's shoulders slump gratefully.

As the minutes pass, Pepper watches the live feed behind her, blowing on her coffee and taking little sips, one and then another until her mug is half-empty.

"Just so you know," she mutters, after a while, "He bit my head off. In case you missed it." 

Tony doesn't even flinch, but replies a little bitterly, "No, I saw."

"Oh, so you  _were_  watching?" she jibes, one eyebrow raised.

Tony shoots her a look. "Of course I was," he snaps, "That idiot broke protocol to come here. It must've been important." And as much to himself as to her he says, "Fury disbands the team and that  _moron_ immediately steals a jet that  _I built_ and flies it  _to my house?_ " He snorts. "Even if I couldn't track my own tech I'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to notice that thing landing in my driveway. So, yeah, Pepper, I was watching," he says a little angrily.

His fingers close on his own mug. He brings it to his mouth and mutters, "I wanted to hear what he disobeyed orders to say."

Pepper takes a slow sip of her coffee and swallows. "So why didn't you speak to him?" she asks carefully, after a moment, "If you knew it was so important?"

"I don't think Steve came here to talk," Tony mutters to his workbench, putting his mug down again without drinking from it.

Pepper sighs.

"Tony, if you watched  _any_  of that tape then you know that's not true –"

"He came here to shout at my house," Tony interrupts, not looking up, "He didn't come here to talk to me, he came to beat me to a pulp. To leave me a… a… a red  _smear_  on the driveway," Tony scoffs. "He came here because he needed to have a tantrum and he wanted to do it far,  _far_  away from Fury and SHIELD, where there was nobody to hold him back from cracking my skull open like a… like a... like an overripe  _melon_."

"Tony –"

"I have  _nothing_  to say to him, Pepper," he cuts her off, snatching up a circuit board and flipping it over and over between his fingers.

Pepper folds her arms. "Well,  _that's_  a blatant lie."

"It's not," Tony snaps, now reaching for a soldering iron, just to have something to do with his hands. "And besides, even if I  _did_  I – I wouldn't even know where to  _start_ ," he falters. "There's just… there's just so much…  _bad blood_ between us, after everything that's–"

"That is  _not_  the same thing as having nothing to say!" Pepper interrupts exasperatedly, "That's having  _so much_  to say that you can't get your head on straight enough to even  _begin_." She sighs. "It's very different." 

Solder now hissing under his fingers, Tony mutters, "It doesn't matter anyway, Pepper. He's gone." And he grits his teeth as he says, "And now that the Avengers are through, he has no reason to come back."

Pepper pretends not to notice the way his grip tightens on the soldering iron as he says that.

"Tony, he didn't come here to scream at the front door," she says gently, after a moment. "And he definitely didn't come here to talk to  _me_. As evidenced by that little –" she waves her mug at the screen, "…tantrum, out there."

She puts the mug on the desk with a sigh and folds her hand in her lap.

"He came here to try to talk to you…  _again_. But… Tony, he's running out of patience."

As she looks up at the screen she adds quietly, "I don't think he can carry on like this much longer."

When Tony still says nothing, Pepper looks at him pointedly and jabs a finger at his chest.

"Look, if you think that he won't come back just because the Avengers got put in time-out, then you're more of a moron than I ever gave you credit for. You need to –"

Suddenly, Tony makes an angry sound and snaps, "Pepper, for  _God's sake_ , I can't  _sleep_ , I can't  _eat_ –"

"–which is obviously a  _disaster_  because those things have always been  _so_   _high_  on your list of priorities…" she interrupts, rolling her eyes.

"Pepper,  _please_  –"

She holds her hands up. "I'm just saying, Tony. You once stayed up for nearly five days straight without sleep or food. Frankly, it's a miracle you aren't brain damaged by now. God knows you do enough stupid, reckless stuff to warrant it…"

"And given this stunt you're pulling right now," she adds irritably, "I'm not too sure that you  _aren't_ … Brain damaged, that is."

Tony scowls at her. "You're not helping."

Pepper perches on the edge of his desk then, pushing more papers and tools aside, and just looks at him for a long moment before she speaks.

"Tony, much as I want to? I'm not here to pander to your ego. I'm not here to rub your back and pat your hand and say "oh, poor baby", because that is  _not_ going to help you. Treating you like a child won't get you out of this mess  _you_  created."

She sighs. "It's time for some tough love. Call this an intervention, fine; it is what it is. I'm here to get you back on your feet. I'm here to tell you to pull your head out of your ass and actually  _look_  at what you're doing! Look at the man on that security feed! That is  _your fault!_ "

She flings an arm out at the image. And when Tony keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the circuit board in front of him, she growls in frustration. Pepper turns to the feed, rewinds it, and pauses it at the exact moment when Steve looks directly at the camera. In high definition it hurts to even look at him. His eyes are haggard, his expression desperate. It is the face of a man in pain.

"Tony, please _look at him_ ," she pleads, pointing at the screen. "Look at him and tell me you're not sorry for doing this!"

"Pepper –"

"God, I still don't even understand why you  _are_  doing this!" she flounders. "You were just– you were so…" She trails off, sinking down enough to murmur sadly, "You were so _happy_."

Neither of them speak for a long time after that.

Then, eventually, Tony pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, still refusing to look at the screen, and exhales slowly.

After a while, he mutters, "Something happened. Okay? Something happened, and I lost it. There is nothing else to say. That's it." Tony closes his mouth, chokes something back.

"We're through. We're done. We tried, we failed, and this is the aftermath, alright? This –"

He collapses into silence again with a stiff, angry sound. Until, softly, Pepper says, "But it's destroying him, Tony. Can't you see that?"

And the silence is broken by Tony slamming his fists into the desk, hard enough to make the mugs rattle, clashing against each other, coffee slopping against the rim.

"And  _still!_ " he yells, eyes bright with something torn halfway between anger and grief, " _Still_ he comes back!" He shakes his head furiously, "I don't  _understand it_ , I  _pushed_  him. I pushed him away! I pushed him further than anyone, further than any  _sane person_ , would take, and he  _still comes back!_ " Chest heaving, voice cracked, Tony mutters, "God help me, Pepper, I can't  _understand it._ "

He looks down at his hands as if they can answer. "After everything I've said to him, after everything I've done, why does he keep coming back? Why does he keep trying?"

His shoulders slump as he asks in a small voice, "Why won't he give up on me? This… All of it, it's… it's just gotten so out of control that I… I can't, I don't know…"

He cuts himself off with a small, strangled sound, fingers curling on the iron in his hand; giving up.

Pepper doesn't speak for a moment.

"Sometimes I don't understand you, Tony," she says quietly, after a while. "Just when I think I've finally figured you out, you do something… something like this. You do something so monumentally stupid it actually beggars belief."

Tony's grip on the soldering iron tightens.

Her hand appears on his shoulder again, and he flinches away. But she doesn't let go, and her voice is quiet as she says, "Tony, listen. I know you don't do well with… commitment." She sighs as she feels him tense up. "I know you prefer to play the rich playboy because then you don't have to think about what any of it actually means –"

"Hey, we did just fine –" he mutters weakly beneath her hand.

She smiles sadly.

"Until you couldn't separate our business relationship from our personal one," she murmurs, and leans back, folding her hands in her lap.

She is quiet for a while, the machines behind her humming a soft soundtrack to fill the silence.

"It was different for us," she says quietly, after a long time. "We were never going to work. We didn't have what you and Steve have…"

Tony says nothing, but she feels his posture stiffen at her side.

" _Had,_ " she amends with a small sigh. Still, Tony says nothing. She nudges him gently with an elbow.

"You're my best friend, Tony, and I'm grateful for that. We tried to be more, and for a while it was good. It was… wonderful, but… But it just…" she sighs, trailing off, to say, "I guess it just wasn't meant to be."

She looks down at him. "And that's okay. We're part of each other's lives and that's how I want it to stay. But… you and Steve…"

"I guess I just…didn't see it ending like this," she says softly.

Tony's solder smokes as he sits utterly still, saying nothing. Head tipped down, Pepper can't see the look in his eyes.

"I don't know what happened between you two," she says eventually, "but I honestly hope you can find a way to get through it, before you do any more damage to yourselves… and to each other." She sighs again. "I hate seeing you like this…  _Both_  of you. He's part of this house now, as much as I am. As much as you are." She squeezes Tony's shoulder, and murmurs, "He's family."

Tony doesn't reply, his eyes on the circuitry in front of him, on the metal, until, just as Pepper collects her mug and stands up to leave, he quietly says –

"I'm sorry."

She frowns, turning back.

"What?"

"I… I'm sorry he said those things to you," Tony murmurs, putting down the soldering iron and running a hand through his thick hair. He sighs. "You were only trying to help and he bit your damn head off. And that's my fault." He looks up at her. "I'm sorry you've been dragged into this as well, Pepper. I really am."

She gives a little shrug, her eyes sad.

"That's not really the point, Tony, but… thanks," she says, smiling a little. "You know, I do understand. You left me at breaking point more than once, remember? Call it a bad habit." Her smile falters. "I know a little of what it's like."

"It's no excuse for him to behave like that," Tony mutters.

"No, it's not," Pepper says slowly. "But I can understand it. And I'll get over it."

Tony says nothing then, jaw tight.

"You know you can talk to me about this," Pepper adds softly, after a moment, "When you're ready. Of all the people in the world, I'm not going to judge you. You can say what you're really thinking, and if you just want me to listen, that's okay, too. I won't say anything. You can just talk until you've got it all out. Alright?"

Tony gives the slightest nod. Pepper puts a hand on his shoulder again.

"I will always be here," she murmurs, squeezing gently. "At least think about it?"

He nods properly now, and looks up at her. She opens her mouth to say something, then bites her lip. She exhales, wrestling with the words. Then, she gives herself a little shake, and looks at him, holding his gaze. For a moment, she does not speak.

Then, very softly, she says, "He loves you, Tony."

And when he doesn't answer her, she puts down her mug and folds him into a tight hug.

She pulls back after a moment, and presses a kiss to his forehead. Then, with a heavy sigh, she straightens to leave. As her footsteps retreat, Tony presses his hands to his eyes.

But it isn't until he hears the click and hiss of the outside door that he murmurs into the dark, warm well of his palms two small, simple words.

" _I know._ "

. . .

The door hisses shut and Pepper leans heavily back against it. She sighs, eyes on the ceiling, blinking at the fluorescent lights too bright above her.

Then, abruptly, from close by, a familiar voice asks, "You alright?"

Pepper's eyes snap down to look, and there, standing three feet away, is Natasha, leaning a shoulder against the white wall of the corridor.

Pepper scrubs a hand down her face more roughly than she intended.

"I can't get through to him, Nat," she sighs, suddenly so tired. "He isn't listening to me."

Natasha smiles, unfolding her arms. "Surely you're used to that by now?"

"That's not the– maybe in  _business_ , but I should be able to get  _through_  to him enough to– I just don't know what to do anymore!" Pepper flaps, throwing her hands up. "I'm… I'm out of ideas! I've got nothing. I'm done."

Natasha steps forward to place a hand on her shoulder and Pepper collapses into the gesture. The spy smiles kindly.

"Keep trying," she says gently, "If anyone can pull him out of this, it's you." She squeezes Pepper's shoulder. "You'll break down the walls he's built eventually. You said so yourself just now – "don't give up on him"."

Pepper frowns at her.

"Were you listening to us?" she says, narrowing her eyes, "To me and Steve?"

"Of course," Natasha replies, making a face. "I didn't follow him here just to plug my ears and close my eyes." She shrugs. "I came here to make sure he's okay – Fury's orders."

" _Fury's orders_ –" Pepper mutters under her breath, "Well he  _isn't_ okay, is he?" she snaps abruptly. "He is far,  _far_  from okay, and–"

And she puts a hand to her mouth, eyes wide at her outburst. "I… I'm sorry, Nat, I didn't…"

The spy just shakes her head.

"It's alright," she shrugs, "I understand. You've got a lot on your plate. You've been around Tony so long that you're bound to feel protective over him."

"And besides," she smiles, "I can handle defensive."

Pepper sighs. "It's just, I… I'm trying to run the  _company_  in the middle of all this! Do you have any idea the  _dive_  our stock took when it was announced that the Avengers were disbanding this morning? It's practically in  _freefall!_  People don't want to be involved with anything Avengers-related right now, and everyone knows Tony builds for the team – funds you, houses you!" Pepper lets her head fall back against the door with a thud. "It's a nightmare, Nat, and I'm responsible for cleaning it up. Same old thing, different job title…" The spy squeezes Pepper's shoulder as she grumbles, "I should've taken that vacation when I had the chance, huh? Least the pay's higher…"

"Hey," Natasha interrupts, giving her a shake, "Listen to me."

Pepper sniffs, but looks up. The spy smiles and says, "This isn't your fault, Pepper. It's not on you to fix this. This is Tony's mess, and Tony has to clean it up. You're not him, and you're not the Avengers. This is nothing to do with the company, okay? This is a blip and it will pass." She scrubs her hands up and down Pepper's arms. "Stark Industries is your baby now, and people know that. Everything is going to be fine."

"Now," she says, her hands on Pepper's shoulders, "Whose name's on the door?"

Pepper smiles weakly and answers, "Mine."

"That's right," Natasha smiles back, " _Yours_. _Your_  name's on the door. _You're_  CEO now, not Tony."

Pepper laughs shakily. "But  _his_  name's on the  _building_ ," she replies, jerking a thumb at the screen beside the lab door, where the local news is running a segment on the stock price freefall – showing images of Stark Tower lit up in the night sky despite the turmoil raging below it, inside it, and all around.

Natasha exhales in a snort. "You know what I mean," she says, smiling again. "You're going to be fine. Trust me."

She gives Pepper another little shake. "You've been running his business for years, Pepper. You kept it going when Tony would've let it run itself into the ground; kept it going even when he  _did._ " She shrugs. "You've just got the salary to match, now."

Pepper nods weakly back, but her eyes are still on the screen. She says nothing else for a moment, until she murmurs, "I'm just so worried about him, Nat."

The spy releases Pepper's shoulders with a sadder smile then, and looks at the closed lab door. She nods.

"If he doesn't snap out of this soon, he's going to self-destruct," Pepper says quietly, as the news footage loops behind her. "And we both know what that looks like."

"Someone has to stop him before he becomes a danger to himself, and to the rest of us."

Pepper sighs again, and says, "What, he's not already?"

Natasha gives an amused snort, and Pepper hazards another tired smile.

But she nods her assent, finally standing up straight. She looks at the spy a little sadly, a hand on Natasha's upper arm giving her a slight squeeze of encouragement.

"Well, if we don't do it, who will, right?" she says, allowing herself a small, more hopeful smile. "But, I've done my bit for today…"

She motions to the lab door and says, "Your turn."

Natasha nods, squeezing Pepper's arm in return.

For what it's worth, she was a great boss, while that lasted.

As Pepper walks away, disappearing down the curve of the corridor, she calls out "Good luck, Nat"; but though the spy appreciates the sentiment, this particular encouragement Natasha chooses to disregard.

She places her hand on the keypad, allows the chip in her wrist to do its work, and smiles when the system announces " **ACCESS; GRANTED** ", hearing Tony shout "Pepper, for the  _last time_ , I'm  _fine_ –"

Because as she steps into the workshop, her instructions clear, Natasha knows better than to rely on something so fickle as luck.

__

_One Week Ago_

"Tony."

_He grunts at the noise. When he turns his head, papers travel with it, stuck to his cheek by the spit trailing from the corner of his mouth. He must've passed out again. He processes this thought sluggishly and shoves the pages away. The abruptness of the movement sends a wave of pain stabbing through his head._

"Oh  _God_  –"

_He feels like a train wreck._ To Rhodey, he definitely looks like one. Stood with his arms crossed, the colonel kicks Tony's foot again.

"Tony. Wake up."

Tony groans, heels of his palms coming up to press against his eyes, trying to will the splitting headache away.

"Whuttimeizzit?" he mutters from underneath his hands. His voice is rough, hoarse. He sounds like he's been screaming at the top of his lungs.

More likely he hasn't used his voice in days. More likely he's been playing his music loud enough to burst his own eardrums in an effort to block out the sound of his own thoughts.

Rhodey knows the signs. He knows when one of Tony's attempts at losing himself in his work isn't enough to escape the contents of his own head. He knows when it isn't working. He's seen it all before.

He leans against the desk and passes his friend a glass of water.

"Right now? It's 3:40pm, and it's time you got up."

Tony only grunts in response, downing half the water in one swallow and wincing as the cold makes his head throb even harder. He scrubs a hand down his face, over the fuzz that is his usually carefully manicured beard growing out.

"Jesus, you're a mess," Rhodey mutters, eyeing the state of Tony's clothes, his dishevelled hair… that is to say nothing of the lab, which looks like a bomb's hit it (and given Tony's propensity to invent highly volatile, highly  _dangerous_  equipment when he's drunk and/or angry, that possibility is entirely plausible).

Rhodey wrinkles his nose. "And my God, when was the last time you  _showered?_  Or even  _looked_  at yourself?"

"Don't know," Tony mumbles, shaking his head, and adds darkly, "Don't like mirrors so much."

"'sides," he mutters then, eyes dull, "I'm quite literally the  _last_  person I want to see right now."

"Tony –" Rhodey starts, but the sigh his friend heaves cuts him off before he can finish.

Tony takes another swallow of water, and rasps, "When did you get here?"

Rhodey just looks at him.

"Really, Tony? Seriously?"

The billionaire seems to shrink in on himself a little more at that, hunching down and curling inwards. Rhodey sighs because apparently it was a serious question.

He exhales slowly, carefully. Patience is the only way to deal with Tony when he's like this.

"I fished your sorry ass out from under the Hummer  _three hours ago_ , Tony –" he says a moment later, and the billionaire groans, "I have a Hummer? When did I buy a  _Hummer_ –?"

Rhodey ignores him to say, "–And you were  _still_  drunk out of your mind."

Tony looks up at him with bloodshot eyes and says roughly, "I kinda have been for the past two months." He sniffs, looks down at his feet, and mumbles, "Can't say I remember much of it."

He looks so small.

Rhodey sighs. "That really doesn't make me feel any better, Tony."

"Didn't think it would," his friend rasps, suddenly stretching to crack his spine, bones and body aching. "Sorry, pal," he mutters, eyes on the floor again, his apology sparse.

And Rhodey just nods. Because he's been through this a thousand-and-one times before. He's watched Tony sink into deep, dark troughs, and he's watched him claw himself back up to dizzying peaks… if only to cascade down the other side all over again after yet another catastrophe has wracked him.

But all Rhodey says, as he watches him inhale, exhale, grimace at the pain in his skull, is, "We gotta get you outta this funk, man."

And Tony just nods.

He sinks down next to the man he considers his best friend, and slaps a hand on his shoulder, fingers squeezing in comfort, in sympathy – he doesn't really know. Tony says nothing.

But he doesn't need to. Rhodey understands.

"God, I haven't seen you in so long," Tony murmurs, after minutes have passed in silence. His friend looks up at him, and his brown eyes are lost.  _Jesus, he'd dropped the ball on this._

Rhodey sighs inwardly. He knew things had been snowballing with Tony and Steve these past few weeks, months even, but he had no idea it had gotten this bad.

He didn't know it had driven Tony back into the arms of Johnny Walker Black.

He didn't know it had reduced his best friend to  _this_ ; this shuffling, zombie-eyed shell, this  _husk_  of a man.

"I know," he says quietly, squeezing the hand on Tony's shoulder again. "And that's my fault. I've been on tour in Europe, Asia. There was this… this whole crazy thing with Hydra and an AIM splinter cell back in…" Then he shakes his head, dismissing the story. "Never mind, man. It doesn't matter what I was doing. What I  _wasn't_  doing was paying attention."

He sighs. "If I'd known you were this bad, I'd have –"

And Tony shakes his head "no".

"You're a soldier, Rhodey," Tony says, voice rasping out of him hoarse. "You can't just up and leave. Not to babysit me." Then he barks a horrible, sharp laugh. "I haven't exactly been returning your calls, have I?" he mutters. "God, I don't even know the last time I was in the presence of another human being…"

"Tony, why are you doing this?" Rhodey asks quietly, all of a sudden. "From what I've heard… from, from what Pep's told me… I mean… Tony, you got a man out there, a  _good_  man, who for reasons I cannot and will  _never_ fully understand  _really loves you_ ,  _despite_  all the bullshit you've put him through –"

Tony grimaces. "Oh God, he's not outside again, is he?"

Rhodey sighs, and rolls his eyes. "No, Tony, he's not outside. Come on, that's not what I – Look, just  _listen_  to me."

Tony doesn't look up, so Rhodey addresses his haggard profile, hand still tight on his shoulder. He breathes out slowly and says, "I love you, man; you know that. Hell, you're like a brother to me. You know I'd do just about anything for you. But…" He trails off and sighs. "I can't do the things he would, Tony. Steve Rogers is… he's… Come on, man, the guy's an honest-to-God saint. He's a legend, a  _hero_. He's gotta be, to put up with you, huh?" Rhodey smiles, though it fades quickly. "And sure, I haven't been around as much as I'd like to've been lately, but that ain't the point." He exhales again, and holds up a hand. "I'm not saying I don't know what it's like to be on the wrong side of you, because I do, I really do. I mean, you've put  _me_  through the wringer enough times…" Tony's grimace almost looks like a smile at that, "But I  _am_  saying that whatever it is that you're doing? Whatever you're going through? … You don't have to do it like this."

Rhodey looks at him and sighs. "I'm lookin' at you right now, man, and what I see? It ain't good. In fact? Aside from the time we pulled you out of the desert with a miniature fusion reactor you'd built out of  _scraps_  wedged in your sternum, I don't think I've ever seen you look worse." And he raises his eyebrows as he says, "Not even after that birthday party in Rio. And you  _know_  the one I mean."

Then he holds up a finger to stop Tony interrupting when he opens his mouth to protest, to be a smart-ass, to answer back, and says, "No, not even the time Obadiah pulled your reactor out of you and left you for dead. And not  _even_  the time that weird-ass palladium poisoning was crawlin' up your neck when the core was  _killing_ you."

Tony sighs then, all corrections exhausted. Rhodey claps a hand back to his shoulder, and gives him a gentle shake.

"Look. We've been through some real bullshit, you and I. But I have  _never_  seen you like this." He exhales heavily after a moment and says, "Tony, whatever it is that started it? Whatever it was?  _Let it go_. It doesn't matter anymore. Because this?" Rhodey gestures at the wrecked workshop, at Tony's emaciated frame, at the bottles upon empty bottles of Jack scattered around the room, and says clearly and carefully, " _This_  has to stop."

He puts both hands on Tony's shoulders and looks him dead on. His friend's brown eyes are so… dull, so blank, that it's frightening.

"Can you even remember why this started?" he asks gently, almost scared to hear the answer.

But Tony shakes his head, though Rhodey honestly can't tell if it's a lie or not. He tightens his grip just a little on his best friend's shoulders and says it again, "Whatever happened between you two? I'm tellin' you, Tony, put it to bed. Let it go. Because this  _isn't worth it_ , man. I'm not gonna watch you waste away in here. You hear me? I won't let you do this to yourself. Not while I can do something about it."

Tony says nothing for a long time, and it's then that Rhodey looks at him again; properly.

And this time, he sees the thick purple smudges below his eyes. He sees where his bones are too close to the surface of his skin, sharp points at his collar, his shoulders, his elbows and wrists. Tony has lost so much weight that he looks like an overgrown child. Not to mention he's so pale that Rhodey would bet good money he hasn't seen the sun in weeks.

Tony looks tired, looks weak; ragged, exhausted. He looks  _old_.

He's seen Tony top to toe in blood – his own, and everyone else's – and yet he has never seen him look so wrung-out; so utterly defeated.

"You weren't here," Tony murmurs, eventually. He sniffs, rubs a hand across his nose. "You weren't here and I get that. War Machine, the Air Force… You're a soldier and you have responsibilities and I get it. I just…"

And hand tight on Tony's shoulder, Rhodey feels so  _guilty_ all of a sudden, though he knows Tony hasn't begun to say even  _half_  of what he has to.

"Tony –" he says, but the man shakes his head, sniffing unsteadily.

Tony stops, hands limp in his lap, then mutters weakly, "It all just… fell apart, Rhodey. And I thought I could handle it. I thought I knew what I was doing but I… I…"

He sighs, sinks his head into his hands, elbows on his knees, and chokes,

"I guess, this time… I just…"

And then, as he unlocks his tongue, finally, all the words he's been barricading himself against just come pouring out.

It all starts with a strange, choked hiccup of a laugh.

"I spent  _years_  of my life trying to build a better bomb," he says, so quietly. "That  _was_  my life. It was everything. And I never really thought about it, never really took the time to stand back and  _think_  about what any of it  _meant_. I was no different from the pilot that dropped the A-Bomb on Hiroshima; separated from the reality of what I was doing by a single, red button." Sudden laughter chokes him. "I was so arrogant, Rhodey; so  _naïve_. I thought I was safe behind my trigger mechanisms, behind my blueprints and my spreadsheets, my streams of data. I was thousands of miles away, and when I wasn't, I was shielded by Kevlar and bullets and men and women that put their faith in the machines  _I built_  to help them protect themselves and our country by killing  _who_ ever or  _what_ ever got in the way; as cleanly and quickly as I could possibly manage it. My God, Rhodey, they called me the  _Merchant of Death_ , and I  _earned_  that name with every bullet they ever burned my name into.  _I earned it_."

His eyes are red, the pupils wide and dark, as he mutters, "Zero accountability…"

He speaks as if he's in a trance.

Rhodey stays silent, and just listens to the tale he has to tell. He can't help but wonder if he's ever told it before. And again, he thinks of the captain.

Tony's eyes are fever-bright, now.

"And then one day, I wake up, and it's over," he says, his voice quiet and small. "I'm not that guy anymore. One day, I'm designing intelligent weapons that could decimate a small  _country_  on the back of a Stark Industries private jet in-flight  _napkin_ , and the next? I'm flying Mach 2 over Africa to drag a warlord out of his flea-infested stick-and-mud  _hut_  because he  _dared_  plant  _my_ mines in a field where children want to play  _soccer_." His voice trembles as it swells in volume with his rage, and Tony shakes his head like he still can't believe what he's saying.

And then, abruptly, Tony laughs at the story he's telling; his own story. But the sound is ragged, small, and it's  _wrong_. There is no light, no life, behind it. It sounds more like defeat. Because the story is, in no small part, a cautionary tale; a parable. It is a horror story.

And Tony says, very softly, "You tell me that ain't the biggest 180 you ever heard."

Rhodey swallows. Beside him, Tony Stark is haggard and gaunt;  _lost_.And for the first time in a long time his eyes hold only questions. He has no answers.

"One moment, and my life burns to ashes around me," Tony mutters. "One moment, and everything changes. My work, my inventions…  _everything_.  _My whole life_ , everything I  _am_ … "

He turns to him, suddenly.

"Rhodey, I  _saw_  what the things  _I_  designed, the things  _I_   _built_ , were being used to do and I… I just –"

Abruptly, he snaps his fingers, and the sound is brash and violent in the quiet air. It startles them both.

Thin and manic, eyes blazing, Tony murmurs, " _I woke up_."

And he looks at Rhodey then, searching.

"I am Iron Man," he says quietly, shaking his head. "God, that stupid bitch at the press conference…" He drops his head into his hands.

"I was trying to be something  _better_ , Rhodey. Something  _good_. I was doing things no one else could do…  _saving people_ , saving  _lives_ , because I knew in my heart that after everything I'd done… all the death and agony  _I'd created_ … I knew that it was right."

His eyes grow dark again as he says, "But I was still  _me_  inside that suit. Inside the armour I was still just as  _arrogant_ , just as  _reckless_ , as I'd ever been, despite  _everything_  that had happened to me and  _then_ ," he chokes off, a strangled, mournful sound.

" _Then_ …" he mutters, eyes cast upwards to the twisting holograms overhead, his breath caught still in his lungs,

" _Then_  I realised I was going to die."

Tony is silent for a long time, until eventually, he murmurs, "You know I – I never… never sat you down and apologised to you… for that night. For… my birthday."

He looks at Rhodey again abruptly, and the blazing intensity of his gaze returns in that moment.

"I was testing you," he says, the words surging, falling,  _bursting_  out of him, "making sure you were ready, making sure you were  _worthy_ , to wear that armour when I was gone, and I… I just…" His voice falters.

" _I'm sorry_ ," he says unsteadily, when it returns. "I never said it, Rhodey, but I am."

And his friend looks up at him with such unfettered pain then, as he breathes, " _Rhodey, I'm so sorry._ "

Rhodey's heart sinks low as Tony fists his hands in his hair, as his voice fails him. His breath is shallow and stuttering as he tries to speak.

"I was  _dying_ ," Tony says, shaking his head. "And I'd tried  _everything_. Every element, every  _combination_ , and  _nothing worked_. I was dying, and I…" he trails off, voice soft, "I couldn't fix it."

Tony looks up at him again, then. "I will always be sorry for what I did that night; for the  _stupid_  things I did when I thought I was living on borrowed time." He rakes his hands through his hair again. "I nearly didn't make it. God, I was so  _sure_  that I was… You  _saw_  the depleted core," he says feverishly, eyes dark and bright. "I mean, for the love of – I had to create a new  _element_  just to  _save myself!_  I had to –! I…!"

Rhodey doesn't speak as Tony breathes; as he tries to keep himself together long enough to  _explain_  the things he's done. Tony is dragging air into his lungs like he's drowning, and Rhodey  _cannot help him_. He can only watch. He can only wait.

Tony's breath comes in startled, ragged hiccups as his tale spins on.

"And Fury hands me a case of my old man's junk… Just  _leaves me_  with a puzzle that  _he_  couldn't finish with the technology they had, and…  _Christ_ , Rhodey, I turned my house into a fucking  _particle accelerator_  on the off-chance that that fucking element would  _work!_ "

Tony's breathing is rapid now, erratic. His chest heaves in and out, fingers clutching Rhodey's at his shoulder as if Rhodey's hand is the only thing anchoring him now.

"I gambled my life on the hope that my father had left me the key to something  _extraordinary_ … and by God, if he gave me nothing else in my whole damn life,  _he actually did it_ ," Tony rushes out, head shaking. " _We_  did it. Metal and coconut and  _pain_  like I've never…" he trails off. "But the fucking thing  _worked_ , Rhodey. It saved me and  _I'm still here_."

Tony looks at Rhodey again then, breathing hard, his expression now utterly serious. And he says quietly, "But I  _never_  said sorry for the damage I caused when I thought I wouldn't be here for much longer…" He exhales. "Not properly. Not enough."

"Tony –" Rhodey starts, but Tony shakes his head roughly,

"No. What I did was completely out of control. I put other people in danger because I was too wrapped up in the death sentence tattooed on my neck to know any better."

"People could have died, Rhodey," he says breathlessly, eyes black with remorse. "And  _I_  did that. I… I'm sorry.  _I'm so sorry._ "

He breathes unevenly, heavy and then light, and the air echoes with his apologies.

"Tony, it's alright," Rhodey says quietly then, a hand still on his friend's shoulder. "I forgave you for that a long time ago," he murmurs.

Tony nods, but the gesture is hollow, and Rhodey knows it will take a lot more than those few words to prove to the man beside him that their meaning is true.

His fingers on Tony's shoulder squeeze a little tighter, and Tony's head tilts down, his eyes closing.

There is so much more to say.

"God, and  _then_ ," he says, shaking his head dumbly, "in the aftermath of all that? I just about brought down the whole of the Stark Expo!" He barks a laugh. "Isn't that just perfect? The year we decide to bring that fucking  _farce_  of a showcase back after  _thirty years_  and what do we do?" He throws his hands up.

"We blow it to hell," he says incredulously. "All thanks to  _Ivan fucking Vanko_ …"

Tony shakes his head. "But we got through that too, right? Didn't we? We got through it, and I rebuilt the Arc Reactor… I built the Tower, built the whole damn thing to run on sustainable power. And then?" Tony laughs again as if he can't believe the words coming out of his own mouth. " _Then_ …" he throws his hands up in the air, "All hell breaks loose."

And Tony collapses into nervous, jittery laughter. "I'm not just a SHIELD consultant anymore," he hiccups, "Oh no, that's not enough. Thor's  _brother_  decides to get jacked up on cosmic power and then,  _bam_  – Nick Fury makes me a fucking  _Avenger_ ,  _for Christ's sake!_ "

"Tony Stark; genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist,  _textbook narcissist_ ," he says bitterly, sarcasm coating the words, "has to  _play nicely with others._ " Tony scoffs."And 'For the good of mankind', no less! I mean –" he chokes off the sentence with a self-deprecating laugh, "Do you even understand how  _ridiculous_  that sounded?" He shakes his head in disbelief. "Who in their right mind would've thought that in the space of a  _year_  I'd go from one to the other? I just… I mean…  _I_  can't even believe it sometimes!"

He trails off, eyes on a distant point, until a moment later, he mutters, "But it happened, didn't it?" He shakes his head. "We saved the day, slapped the bad guy on the wrist, and got home in time for dinner."

Abruptly, Tony laughs again, his eyes manic for a moment. Then he holds up a hand.

"And  _then_ … _just_  when I'm getting used to the fact that I'm part of a team of  _superheroes_  and  _gods_ …  _Just_  when I've  _finally_  adjusted to saving the whole damn world on a regular basis…  _Just_  when I felt like I was  _finally_  starting to make up for the things I did before my  _own fucking weapons_   _blew a hole in my chest_ …"

His eyes lose their focus, glazing over, as he murmurs, "I had to go and fall in love, didn't I?"

_Tony looks up at the air above them, at the designs spinning silently there. The music around him is soft, unobtrusive, and as he listens to the sounds of rainfall, he wishes, for a moment, that he could feel the gentle wash of rain against his face._

Rhodey does not interrupt the silence.

"He's under my skin," Tony says thickly, a few quiet moments later, "And I can't get him out." He shakes his head, eyes suddenly wet.

"He's not even here and I can still _feel him_. He won't  _leave_."

"Do you want him to?" Rhodey asks quietly, after a time.

"No, I –" Tony starts, then makes a frustrated, anguished sound as he realises that he can't even  _begin_ to explain the tangled, impossible  _mess_  of emotion knotted inside his chest.

He doesn't know where to start.

" _Yes_ , I want him to leave," he tries, angrily, "…for his own damn  _good!_  I mean, the things I've  _said_  to him, Rhodey, the things I've… I just– I don't… I mean, I  _can't_ – and he wouldn't  _listen_  to me even if I–!"

And Tony cuts himself off with a snarl, his hands in his hair, wound tight in the mess of overgrown black. He inhales raggedly, exhales; trying to steady himself just enough to let the words out.

"It's all such a mess, I…" Tony mutters, a moment later. "I don't even know where to start."

He laughs, a sudden sound like a hiccup, and Rhodey does not draw attention to the tear that hangs by a thread on Tony's lashes.

"I can fly, Rhodey," Tony says, so small, "But I've forgotten what it's like to run… to even walk."

And very softly, he murmurs, "I've been in freefall for so long, I don't even know how to stand anymore."

Rhodey's hand on his shoulder tightens.

Tony's fingers unwind in his hair, and he murmurs with blank eyes, "I've just… I've just been so… alone."

And Rhodey sighs.

"From what I've heard?" he says quietly, "You did that to yourself."

"Does it matter who did it?!" Tony snaps suddenly, eyes blazing, angry, shoving his friend's hand away.

"Whoa, hey,  _easy_ ," Rhodey soothes, hands up in placation, "I ain't here to judge you, Tony. Or chastise you, either." Hand back on his shoulder, he gives him a little shake. "I'm here to help you, man. You know that. You just… you just gotta let me. Okay? You gonna let me help you?"

When Tony lets his hands drop defeatedly to his lap, this, as much as everything else, gives Rhodey the answer he seeks.

Because though Tony might never ask for his help, Rhodey has to try.

"When was the last time you even left the workshop?" Rhodey asks gently, then.

Tony shrugs, or attempts to. There is so little energy in the movement that he barely moves at all.

And Rhodey sighs. "That long, huh?"

God, he needs to do something; because Tony is so caught up in his pain that he can't see a way out anymore. He needs to do something – anything – to bring him back to the surface, even if it's just for a little while. He needs to know that Tony is still  _in there_  somewhere, behind the pain.

And when he stands up and looks at the desk behind him a moment later, sees the screensaver on the panels, Rhodey has an idea.

"Hey, you want to go to the racetrack?" he asks after a long time, trying to smile. "It's been a while. You still owe me 50 grand from the last time, by the way; if memory serves."

He bumps Tony gently with a shoulder, the man facing away from him, eyes unfocused on the back wall.

"Hey," Rhodey nudges, "How about it? You look like you could use some adrenaline in your system."

He puts his hand back on his best friend's shoulder and says, "C'mon, buddy. Whaddya say?"

Tony's posture doesn't shift under his hand for a long time.

But then, after a beat or two, Rhodey feels it change. He watches Tony shrug off – or choose to ignore – the weight of it all, of everything, even for just a little while. With that subtle shift, Rhodey knows that he's willing to let himself forget, if only for an afternoon.

"Sure," Tony says weakly back, ending his silence. "Why not."

His eyes appear over his shoulder. "I guess I could bring myself to take you down a peg or two, Colonel," he smiles carefully. "It has been a while."

Then he shrugs.

"As for the 50Gs…"

And Rhodey smiles back.

He's trying, and Rhodey appreciates that. He knows Tony can't be talked out of his slumps sometimes. But if and when he can be, Rhodey feels he owes it to him to try.

Tony did make him more than he was, after all, once.

Just like Tony created Iron Man, Tony gave him War Machine –  _made him_  War Machine – and gave him a new purpose with it. War Machine gave him the power to change things, to  _really_  change things; to make an honest-to-God difference in the world. Rhodey would be lying if I said he didn't see things a lot differently after that.

He knows that that kind of debt is repaid in more than words. That kind of debt is repaid in deeds – and in kindness. You stick around when you owe that much; for him, it means sticking around even closer than before.

He would always be there, no matter what happened. It's an unspoken agreement. He owes Tony, and Tony owes him just the same. It's all just a list of checks and balances, really. The account never closes; the list never really ends. There's no such thing as "even", because one of them always does something to throw the system out of balance again, and then they're back to owing each other all over, despite their best intentions.

It's comfortable, their agreement, and Rhodey wouldn't have it any other way. He's got Tony's back, and Tony's got his, in the end. And that's all that matters.

Because it's more than enough.

Tony's eyes are tired, his voice small, as he says, "Rhodey?"

"Mm?"

Tony sighs. Then, with a weak smile, he looks up, and murmurs,

"Thanks."

Rhodey slaps his friend on the shoulder twice more and extends a hand to haul Tony up with him. He smiles back, and says,

"You got it, chief."

They clasp forearms, still for a moment, then Tony nods.

"C'mon, man," Rhodey nudges, "Let's go burn some rubber."

There's a little more strength, a little more light, in Tony's smile then, but as he heads for the suits, Rhodey holds up an admonishing finger.

" _Ah, ah, ah_ , big guy. You are definitely _not_  okay to drive yet. And you certainly ain't flyin' today."

He fishes the keys to the Audi out from Tony's littered desk and jingles them in his direction.

" _I'm_  driving."

Tony rolls his eyes, conceding, though he brightens when Rhodey adds, "But seeing as I had to wait  _three hours_  before your sorry ass even woke up? I'm thinkin' donuts." He grins. "I'm starving, and  _you're_  buying."

Rhodey shrugs when he sees Tony open his mouth to try to protest, and says, "Hey, you owe me."

Tony huffs, "Fine," after a moment. Then, in a voice that's still a little too small, he asks, eyes up,

"Then fast cars?"

And Rhodey nods, because they can work on that.

"Donuts first," he grins.

And Tony smiles back proper then, nodding, and repeats,

"Donuts first."


	20. Non-Verbal Reasoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> REJOICE, THE HIATUS MAY [JUST ABOUT] BE OVER!

_Yesterday_

His eyes open slowly, and he blinks in the early morning light. The room is pale and quiet around him, the air still. His fingers find the sleep gathered at the corners of his eyes and he digs at it, absently. He wakes slowly. But when his fingers find a vacant space beside him, a hollow in the pillow beside his own, he stiffens, brain now fully alert.

"Tony?"

His voice rings hollowly around the sparse room. He hadn't cared to fill it with his personal affects, preferring his apartment unless necessity called for temporary residence. It feels emptier now than he'd ever noticed, now that it is empty of  _him_.

There is no answer. Steve fumbles for his sweats on the cool floor, pulls them on as he begins to rush, heart rate accelerating as the absence weighs; as it pulls harder at him.

He snatches up a jacket from the chair beside his door, tugs the zip sharply up to his chin, and skims the access panel to exit, the glow of red to green illuminating his fingertips.

Without shoes, his toes scuff the metal corridors in a soft brush, making barely a sound. He travels further in his mind, turning corners before he comes to them; searching, thinking.

_Where did he go?_

Or,  _where_ would _he go?_

He stops at a junction on the floor below the sleeping quarters. The corridors are almost empty this early, and he is alone. His head tilts up as considers his options.

_Lab, or the container?_

Logically, these are the two most likely places. And yet, a memory of sun, of bright fields, of hot stone, invades his thoughts then.

_The roof._

Steve turns his eyes up, and heads for the flight deck.

~

He quickly regrets not wearing shoes. The air is quick and cold outside, the sun too weak to warm it yet. He shoves his hands into his pockets, curled into fists, and breaks into a brisk walk away from the observation deck and towards the open surface where the planes stand ready.

He finds him sitting, cross-legged, at the furthest corner, hair a wild black mess, hands in the pockets of his own jacket, eyes glazed by the rising sun. Focus blurred, he looks a world apart. He stares blindly across the clouds, into the distance, the horizon far below them, beyond them. He does not focus, but lets the sky swim past his open eyes. It feels distant. It feels like meditation.

Steve can't bring himself to intrude; at least, not yet. He waits just beyond the wing of a stationary plane.

Until a pilot casually hails him, hand raised in salute. His voice is too loud.

Tony's eyes refocus, and he blinks. He turns to look over his shoulder before his brain can reconnect, before he can recall all that came before. One hand rises in greeting. A smile alights his eyes before he can remember.

And it freezes on his lips when he does.

His hand falters, mid-air. His throat constricts, driving the breath from him before he can swallow it. He gulps, and the smile turns sour at his mouth, his lips hardening into a line.

Steve's own hand drops like dead weight, following the path of his heart. His limbs turn to stone as Tony turns away from him, as he visibly flinches inwards, knowing Steve is there, the illusion of peace shattered by his presence.

Steve's hand drops to his side, fingers curling, tightening into a fist. He feels the pressure in his jaw as his teeth grit. Slowly, carefully, he exhales. It is a practiced motion, but it is not steady. Nor are his feet as he moves forwards.

Each step lasts a lifetime, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, his tongue burning with a thousand questions. His heart aches. His lungs are tight. He is heavy.

He comes to a slow halt a few paces from Tony, his back straight, body utterly rigid. His apprehension chokes him.

Long moments later, Steve manages, "Good morning."

His tongue is thick, and the words are clumsy to his ears. He winces at the sound of his own voice.

Who knew two words could sound so foolish?

His shoulders sag when Tony gives no response.

A plane takes off, its pilot unaware of the tension he has left below him. Steve swallows hard, his mouth dry as bone. Tony's body does not move an inch.

Irritation flares in the dry hollow of Steve's throat, expands in his chest, contracts like his lungs. Still the silence extends. His chest tightens, the subtle beginnings of panic.

Steve exhales slowly through his nose in a shallow attempt to control his breathing. It doesn't work.

And then Tony sighs.

"Hi."

The tightness surges, dissipating in a violent rush, leaving Steve's body burning with the aftermath.

He forces himself forward, though his legs are stiff and unwilling. After two slow steps, they stop, but will not bend. They will not bring Steve down to Tony's level.

For the moment he is grateful for that. He does not want to see the look in Tony's eyes right now.

His own slip closed for a brief second. When they open, he looks down to see Tony staring out across the water below them again. His gaze is still, and steady. Steve's palm are slick, and he slides them slowly down his thighs to dry them. Tony catches the movement, eyes flicking back and forth in a heartbeat. His gaze does not linger long on the length of Steve's fingers.

Steve swallows past the lump in his throat. He tries to summon words, pleasantries, empty conversation. It will not come.

It is a shock when Tony speaks first.

He clears his throat, and his eyes flick up to Steve as he says, "We should talk."

Steve nods. Instantly, the motion feels too curt, and he regrets it.

"Here?" he asks, cringing at his own voice. It sounds small. It sounds weak.

But Tony is defeated when he answers, "Sure. Why not? It's as good as anywhere."

He shrugs. "Least they won't be eavesdropping here," he mutters, lacing his fingers in his lap. His eyes look out, seeing nothing, taking nothing in.

Steve closes his for a moment, letting out a deep breath that he'd held for too long.

"What is there to say, Tony?" he says, quietly.

The bark of laughter that escapes Tony makes Steve jump.

"You're joking, right?" Tony snorts. "Don't tell me you're just going to say "What's past is passed" and forgive me like you –" Tony starts, and Steve stops him with a single finger.

"No," he says, deadly quiet. "No, I'm not."

Tony looks at him, brow furrowed.

Steve's throat is tight, tight enough that he shouldn't be able to breathe. But he can, and he does.

"I'm not going to forgive you," says Steve, and his eyes are resolute. His resolve weighs heavy in the blue. It makes them hard. "Not like this."

Tony blinks at him, squinting.

"Excuse me?"

Steve swallows, forces himself to be steady.

"I'm not going to forgive you like this," he says, fingers balled in fists at his sides. He can't remember when he did that. "Not when you haven't told me a single thing that's gone through that thick head of yours for the past month. Hell," he snaps, "maybe longer."

Tony's eyes widen. Whatever he expected from him, this was not it.

"Did you honestly think I would just let this go?" Steve says, "That I wouldn't want to know why you did it? Or what you could  _possibly_  have been thinking that would justify the way you've treated me?"

He shakes his head tightly. "I may be a Christian, Tony. But I'm not God. I can't forgive you so easily. I'm not that good."

Steve exhales, eyes hard.

"And I won't," he says.

Tony just looks at him.

"I want to know why you did it," says Steve, taking a bold step forward. "And that is the very  _first_  thing you are going to tell me. Because I have questions, and you  _owe me_  the answers. That is the  _least_  of it."

Tony holds his gaze for a long moment, mouth open ever so slightly.

Then he stands, slowly, deliberately. He puts himself two inches from Steve's face, chin jutted out, pressed up too close, a shade of last night so far-removed that it sends a violent jolt through Steve. It makes him feel sick.

He remembers the day he confronted Tony in the corridor. Remembers his fist connecting with Tony's face; remembers leaving him unconscious in his bed.

His stomach churns, and when he swallows he tastes bile.

Tony is breathing too fast. His chest heaves, and this close it presses against Steve with each quick breath. He stands defiant, and his eyes are dark, cold.

Steve doesn't know if he wants to kiss him or choke him.

"Don't hold your breath," Tony mutters, finally. His voice is grating rock, coarse as sand, and it stings.

"And don't  _ever_  threaten me again."

His eyes glitter, diamond hard and dangerous. "Because I promise you, I'll make you regret it."

He turns away, and leaves Steve burning in the morning air, fists still curled like the rage in his aching chest, eyes towards a pale sun.

 

_Today_

"Tony."

Bruce looks surprised to see him, which doesn't come as a shock. The doctor rubs his eyes, short hair dishevelled like he just woke up. He looks like that a lot. "What a… pleasant surprise."

Tony's smile is more like a grimace.

"You got a minute?" he asks tightly.

"Sure," nods Bruce. "Just let get myself some tea and I'm all ears."

Tony watches the screen as Bruce shuffles off to fix himself a mug of it. He folds his arms, dips his chin down towards his chest and closes his eyes, just for a moment.

He's almost forgotten what real rest feels like, always running on panic and adrenaline, that tight feeling in his chest. Panic attacks see him seize up in the halls of the helicarrier, make him drag himself stiff-limbed and hyperventilating into doorways and empty corridors, trying to remember how to breathe.

Closing his eyes feels like closing the lid on his coffin as they lower him into the ground. There is too much metal here, the walls are too close, the lights too bright or not bright enough to chase the shadows away. Every day the mirror shows him skin that is pale, drawn, smudged below his eyes with purple bruises from where he hasn't been sleeping. His head is too loud and his eyes are dull, and they play tricks on him under the artificial lights.

Bruce reappears, mug first, on the screen, sitting down and pulling his bathrobe closer around him, covering more of the white t-shirt he wears underneath it.

He takes a sip of the steaming liquid and swallows. Tony briefly wonders if he notices extreme heat at all. Bruce looks at him.

"So."

Tony swallows, index finger pawing absently at the sleeve of his shirt.

"I need a favour."

The doctor nods, taking another sip.

"And what would that be, exactly?" he asks, voice quiet gravel from being too recently asleep.

Tony closes his eyes, fingers gripping tighter for a moment on his upper arm.

"I need you to monitor me."

And it feels like defeat.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "What, you think SHIELD isn't doing that already?" he says, with no attempt to hide his sarcasm or disapproval.

"I have absolutely no doubt in mind that they are trying to," Tony counters tiredly, "but I am also confident that I have a little something up my sleeve that scrambles whatever they see when the cameras do pick me up."

He lifts a wrist and pulls down his sleeve to show the modified MARK VII bracelet he wears.

Bruce takes another sip of his tea, nods at the bracelet as Tony covers it again with his sleeve.

"New suit?" he asks.

Tony smiles thinly. "What d'you think I've been doing with myself all this time, Banner?"

"Brooding?" he replies archly. "Finding new ways to drive Steve Rogers to fascinating new depths of insanity?"

Tony's fingers tighten on his arm enough to blanch the skin below his shirt, though Bruce can't see it.

"Working," he says after a long moment, voice tight and unsteady.

"Ah, yes," nods Bruce, "Of course." A thin smile flashes across his lips, "My mistake."

Tony bristles visibly. "I wouldn't mouth off about things you don't understand, Bruce," he says curtly.

The doctor raises his hands in submission.

"No offence intended."

Tony makes a face. "I'm sure."

Bruce tilts his head, and considers him for a time.

"So if I do decide to help you," he muses, "why do you want yourself monitored in the first place? I thought even the idea of it made you break out in hives."

Tony rubs his crossed arms absently with his hands.

"I just… I just want to check something."

Bruce sighs.

"Tony," he starts, more gently than before, "I might be more effective if you trusted me enough to give me all the information." Tony's mouth twitches briefly in a pained smile, but it dies quickly on his lips.

"I know that's a lot to ask," Bruce adds softly.

Tony smiles that grimace again.

"Isn't it, though?"

For a long moment there is only silence. Bruce turns the mug in his hands, losing his thoughts in it. Then he exhales through his nose.

"Fine," he says, resolved. "Don't tell me." He looks at him. "What do you want me to do with the footage?"

Tony speaks quietly, deliberately. He has weighed these words in his mouth, on his tongue, before.

"Keep it on a secure drive," he says. "I'll access it in real-time as and when."

Bruce meets his eyes.

"Do you want me to watch it?"

Tony doesn't look away as the question bores into him through the doctor's placid eyes. Tony wonders how close to the surface the rage within him dwells; wonders how his eyes can look so calm when all beneath them, behind them, is in turmoil, in chaos. How can his eyes be so still, when Tony's own can't help but betray the storm inside of him?

"I suppose I could stop you from doing that," he answers eventually.

Bruce just looks at him, trying to piece together the motives, the possibilities.

"And from that I take it that you won't?" he asks.

Tony just shrugs.

"Sometimes it can help to have an extra pair of eyes," he says quietly.

"You think there's something you're not seeing?" Bruce asks, curious now.

Tony opens his mouth to speak, then closes it so abruptly his teeth snap together, as if about to swallow his answer. He draws several deep breaths before he opens his mouth again.

"More like something  _only_  I'm seeing," he mutters, and it sounds like a confession.

It takes Bruce a moment to nod, but when he does the movement is firm, sure.

"I can do that for you."

Tony looks up, holding his gaze until the dryness in his mouth forces him to swallow to wet it.

His voice is brittle, coming out cracked as he says, "Thank you."

He clears his throat, thoughts turning to the bottle in his desk drawer. He thinks about drinking, and his throat itches in kind.

Bruce raises his mug. "Guess I'll go get started then."

Tony nods.

"I'll check in with you in three days."

Bruce inclines his head, then puts the mug to his lips for another sip.

"What is that anyway?" Tony asks, tilting his chin towards the mug in Bruce's hand.

Bruce swallows the sip he just took.

"Jasmine," he answers, raising the mug in salute.

Tony nods.

"You keep well, Bruce," he says quietly, after a moment.

The doctor nods on the screen.

Tony picks the remote up from the table beside him to end the call, but looks up when he hears his name.

"Tony?"

Above him, the doctor's eyes are sincere, but there is concern written in the lines that frame them.

"Take care of yourself," he says gently.

Tony looks at him with a question, and Bruce shrugs, eyes betraying a sudden sadness.

"Sometimes I just think you need telling."

Tony's nod is stiff, short. His mouth pulls into that queer grimace again. It is still not a smile. Tony wonders if he's forgotten how.

"Goodbye, Bruce," he says.

"Goodbye, Tony."

 

. . .

Natasha lazily dodges a swipe. His fist jabs left, right, straight for her face. His left leg swings up and connects with her arm as she blocks him.

He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Natasha circles him like a cat, slow, predatory.

Steve cocks his head as he asks, "Are you even trying?"

She distracts him from her answering smirk by lunging, and though Steve catches her fist in his palm, his block is too slow to stop her driving her left elbow into his right temple, sending his ears ringing.

Natasha moves two paces back, light on her feet, rolling her shoulders and raising her hands again.

She brushes away an itch at the tip of her nose and smiles, lips pressed, at Steve from across the ring.

"Getting stiff, old man," she drawls, teasing.

They taunt each other when they spar. It's routine, playful, and the banter provides a welcome distraction from the turmoil in his head, and in his heart.

He advances next, dodges right to avoid her punch, blocks a cut with his forearm, then catches her left arm as she jabs at his face and pulls it up, twisting it behind her, pressure on her shoulder with his other hand, pushing her to her knees. Her grunt of discomfort is momentary, as she rolls right, onto her back, turning to face him and pulling him down onto her bent knee. He jerks his hand free from holding her before her knee can connect with his stomach, covering it to lessen to blow the sudden reversal of force would deliver.

Natasha smiles up at him, her hair clinging to the places where sweat has collected along her neck and shoulders. It's getting long again. The curls are coming back. Steve stands, arm outstretched to pull her up with him.

Their faces are suddenly close as he pulls too hard and she oversteps. Their breath mingles in that small space, and Steve can see a single bead of sweat roll down her brow.

He looks down at their hands still clasped between their chests.

Natasha glances down, then up again to meet Steve's eyes. He exhales, heavy but steady, through his nose. Neither releases their grip.

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

Their next steps are almost too fast to follow. Steve spars with Natasha because she doesn't treat him as anything less, or more, than an equal. She does not bow to his seniority, his superiority, or his history. She gives no quarter, and expects none. Steve spars with her because she makes him better. She can be vicious, if that is what efficiency and effectiveness calls for. Steve values her tutelage because it stretches him. Because fighting her leaves him no room to think of anything else.

Sounds of their exertion grind in the air as they move back and forth across the practice mat.

So absorbed are they in trading blow for blow, blocking, advancing, retreating, and advancing again, that neither of them hears the doors hiss open.

But Steve certainly feels it when Natasha catches him square in the jaw, caught off-guard the moment his eyes find the dark-haired man at the door.

Tony's mouth forms a hard line when he sees that the room is already occupied.

"Sorry," he says curtly, "Didn't know this room was… in use."

The fist holding his towel tightens on the fabric until his knuckles are white.

For a moment, the three of them stand there, in tense and stretching silence, no words providing themselves to spare them from the awkward quiet.

Until Natasha sniffs loudly and scrapes her hair back from her face, pulling a band from around her wrist and tying the red mass securely in a high knot.

"Good fight, Steve," she says, nonchalant. She claps his shoulder as she moves past him, dipping under the ropes to walk towards the door.

She collects her water bottle from the bench beside Tony and holds his gaze as she takes a long swallow. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, not looking away. For a moment she doesn't say anything. She glances at Steve, then back to Tony. She speaks only with her eyes, though there is no less fire in her message for it.

"You boys play nice, alright?" she says finally, opening her mouth to tip more water in, squeezed from the bottle.

She glances back at Steve, and turns to leave them, the door hissing shut behind her.

Neither one of them moves.

Steve's eyes remain firmly on the mat underneath his feet, and he rubs his thumbs over the sides of his index fingers like it will wear away the tension in the air around him and free him from it.

Tony's glare bores into the side of his face.

Then he walks to the bench and throws his towel at it.

Steve concentrates on unwinding and rewinding the bindings across his knuckles as Tony laces his shoes in silence.

"You ready to talk about it?" he asks after a long while, more to his feet than to Tony.

He can almost hear it when the other man grinds his teeth.

"Are  _you?_ " Tony grits out.

Steve tucks the ends under layers of criss-crossing tape.

"I was ready to talk about it yesterday," Steve replies curtly, "But you weren't interested."

"And guess what," Tony snaps back, "I'm  _still_  not interested."

He stands and brushes his sweats off, turning to face him. Then he throws his arms out and says curtly, "Are you done?"

And Steve was going to leave. He was going to slip out of the ring, pick up his jacket and go.

But the gesture, the sight of Tony baring his chest, arms wide in challenge, is too much.

So he puts up his fists, motions him forward with one hand, and mutters, "Not by a long shot."

And Tony bites.

His fists clench, and in three short strides he has crossed the room to the ring, ducking below the ropes and inside.

He wipes his mouth with his right hand.

Steve looks at him.

"No binding?"

Tony shakes his head, fists up now, and mutters, "Not for you."

"Good," grits Steve. "Then you'll feel it."

He doesn't know where it comes from, then; the rage that suddenly bursts in his gut, the pain exploding in his chest. Every nerve is alive, on fire, with it.

And he hears the words before he knows he's said them.

"About time you felt something, Stark."

Tony swings first.

Steve jumps back, arms up from the shoulder, then lands and steps left foot forward, bringing his right fist up toward Tony's middle. Tony blocks him, both hands down, pushes him back with knuckles pressed to his sternum.

They circle each other. The movement is so familiar that it makes Steve feel sick.

They've danced this waltz before. Steve remembers the bookcase, the rubble, the picture in the dirt.

He remembers the white hot rage behind his eyes, remembers being so angry he felt like he'd gone blind.

He doesn't know he's doing it until his fist drives the wind out of Tony's lungs.

Tony sinks to one knee, wheezing, clutching his ribs with one hand, the other supporting him on his knuckles.

Steve blinks through the sweat in his eyes and his mind reconnects to his body, every fibre burning with the desire to carry on.

And if this is the only way Tony will listen, then Steve has no choice but to do so.

He only wonders if he will be able to stop.

"I was never…  _good enough_  for you," Tony grunts, swinging low and missing as Steve sidesteps before the blow can connect. "I was never good enough… for…  _anyone!_ "

Steve dodges a clumsy uppercut.

"You're wrong," Steve says, spinning with one foot on the mat, to take Tony's legs from under him. "I told you, over and over, that you are  _everything_  to me. And did you listen? Did you ever care about anyone but your _self?_ And what _you_ wanted?"

Tony lands hard, scrambles back to his feet before the captain can reach him. He dances backwards, away, and they circle again.

His eyes are black, violent, and Steve's eyes are blazing, too.

"You shut me out, Tony," he bites out, "and you never told me why. You didn't care what it did to me. You didn't care that it nearly  _broke me._ You just stood by and _watched –_ "

He kicks, foot square against Tony's braced forearms, forcing him back again.

Tony's back presses against the ropes, and he rolls left, away, advances jabbing left, and then right. Steve blocks and dodges, feints forward, and steps back.

"What did you want me to do?" Tony snarls, air coming hard with the exertion, the fury hot in his blood. "Beg you? Beg you to forget it?"

"I  _wanted_  you," Steve grunts, as Tony's fist slams into his shoulder, "to  _speak to me!_ "

"What would it matter, Rogers?" Tony hisses out, blocking an uppercut that would've made him bite through his tongue. "What difference would it make?"

"You could've let me help you," Steve spits back at him, advancing, relentless punches falling on every part of him Tony leaves exposed. "You could've let me  _in!_ "

Steve kicks him hard, just behind the knee, and Tony drops like a stone and cries out.

Something bubbles up in Steve in that moment, constricts in his bones, and he hesitates, just for a heartbeat. It is enough to give Tony an opening.

He lunges up at Steve then, arms wrapping like iron round his legs and forcing him off balance, slamming him into the floor. The air hisses from Steve's lungs as he lands badly, so shocked by Tony's advance that he forgot to go limp as he fell.

Tony pulls himself to his knees over Steve's body and his fist connects with Steve's cheekbone. Tony hits him again, his left fist this time. He hits him, left, right, left, until Steve feels his lip split, sees blood on Tony's knuckles, both Tony's and his own. There is no difference in the colour of it, and that thought blazes through the pain, leaving his heart aching like it could break all on its own.

He feels hot liquid coursing over his chin from his lip, collecting in the hollow of his throat. And Tony's fingers close around it, slick with the blood, his chest heaving, his lips curled back to bare his gritted teeth.

As the air leaves him, a fog settles over his eyes, and it hurts to think, to struggle to draw breath.

And yet he still sees a glitter in Tony's eyes, sees tracks across his cheeks, though he wonders whether Tony even realises he's sobbing as he chokes the life from him.

Steve doesn't want this.

And so he rolls.

Tony's centre of gravity shifts so suddenly that he has to release his grip on Steve's neck to stop himself falling.

The violent rush of air into Steve's lungs is like an electric shock. He dives across Tony, behind him, and in seconds, Steve has Tony in a chokehold.

Tony struggles against the arms around his neck, their muscles standing tight under the skin as he kicks and claws.

"Stay down, Tony," Steve chokes out, blood on his lips and in his mouth making his speech thick. But Tony's errant fist connects with his jaw so unexpectedly hard that, for a moment, Steve sees stars. His arm releases its grip around Tony's throat long enough for him to struggle free, crawling away to massage air back into his lungs, throat marked an angry red, raised against his pale skin.

And Tony rasps, "I'll kill you," his eyes blazing. "I swear to God, I'll kill you."

He dives for Steve again, and Steve pushes up from his knees, suddenly towering over him. Tony's arm reaches up and Steve acts as if without conscious thought.  _Incapacitate._

He grabs his arm around the elbow and wrenches up.

The sickening crunching pop as the joint is separated from its socket reverberates through the room, and Tony's ensuing scream of pain forces Steve back into the present from the distant fog behind his eyes.

As they refocus, he sees Tony writhe on the mat below him, eyes screwed tightly shut, teeth gritted, grinding against the pain coursing through his arm and body.

Steve sees his hand pull Tony onto his back, sees his foot press hard against Tony's chest, pinning him to the floor, as if he is utterly separate from it.

"DO IT!" Tony yells, and it rings so loud that it hurts to hear the words. His eyes are wet, cheeks marked by sweat and tears. The mat below him is streaked with bloody prints, Steve's blood and his against the fabric.

And Steve wonders why he cannot see.

But when he feels heat on his cheeks, a finger coming away wet, the tang of salt in his mouth, he realises he's crying too.

And his voice is harsh and broken as he steps back, faltering. He barely catches himself as he nearly trips over his own feet.

He shakes his head, as the reality of what has been done here sinks in. His heart is suddenly heavier than he has ever known it.

He rasps, "I can't."

"You  _coward_ ," spits Tony, bloody and pale on the floor. He clutches at his dislocated shoulder with red fingers.

Sadness grips his heart, and cold shudders through him.

"I'm not the coward here, Tony." Steve sounds strangled, almost, by the sobs that writhe in his throat. Everything hurts. Everything aches. His knuckles sting, and his lip throbs, sparking with fresh pain when he touches his tongue to it. His cheeks are hot and wet again, without his consent for them to be so, as he mutters hoarsely,

"You are."


End file.
